And We All Know Love Is A

The Novel As We Knew It In The Nineteenth Century Was Killed Off By Proust And Joyce.

An Uncertain Evil Causes Anxiety Because, At The Bottom Of One's Heart, One Goes On Hoping Till The Last Moment That It May Not Be True; A Certain Evil, On The Other Hand, Instills, For A Time, A Kind Of Dreary Tranquillity.

I Do Not Foresee A Time When I Shall Feel That I Have Nothing To Say.

And We All Know Love Is A Glass Which Makes Even A Monster Appear Fascinating.

Every True Writer Is Like A Bird; He Repeats The Same Song, The Same Theme, All His Life. For Me, This Theme As Always Been Revolt.