Dostoevsky Is Such A Bad Writer It

What Is Money, After All? Almost Nothing, When One Has A Sufficiency Of It.

Art Is Amoral, Whether We Accept This Or Not; It Does Not Take Sides. The Finest Fictions Are Cold At Heart.

A Man Is Not Much If He Can't Depend On Himself, And Nothing If Others Can't Depend On Him.

I Think I'm Less The Writer Than I'm The Written.

You Will Remember This When All Else Fades, This Moment, Here, Together, By This Well. There Will Be Certain Days, And Certain Nights, You’ll Feel My Presence Near You, Hear My Voice. You’ll Think You Have Imagined It And Yet, Inside You, You Will Catch An Answering Cry. On April Evenings, When The Rain Has Ceased, Your Heart Will Shake, You’ll Weep For Nothing, Pine For What’s Not There. For You, This Life Will Never Be Enough, There Will Forever Be An Emptiness, Where Once The God Was All In All In You.