Everything Which One Invents Is True, Be

I Took Eugene Sue's Arthur From The Reading-room. It's Indescribable, Enough To Make You Vomit. You Have To Read This To Realize The Pitifulness Of Money, Success, And The Public. Literature Has Become Consumptive. It Spits And Slobbers, Covers Its Blisters With Salve And Sticking-plaster, And Has Grown Bald From Too Much Hair-slicking. It Would Take Christ Of Art To Cure This Leper.

Put All Your Rage And Madness Into Your Work And Live As Orderly A Life As Possible.

The Author, In His Work, Must Be Like God In The Universe, Present Everywhere And Visible Nowhere.

The Morality Of Art Is In Its Very Beauty.

There Are Two Infinities That Confuse Me: The One In My Soul Devours Me; The One Around Me Will Crush Me