Habit, Of Which Passion Must Be Wary,

Grown-up People Seem To Be Busy By Clockwork... They Run Their Unswerving Course From Object To Object, Directed By Some Mysterious Inner Needle That Points All The Time To What They Must Do Next. You Can Only Marvel At Such Misuse Of Time.

Often When I Write I Am Trying To Make Words Do The Work Of Line And Color. I Have The Painter's Sensitivity To Light. Much Of My Writing Is Verbal Painting.

There Is No Doubt That Sorrow Brings One Down In The World. The Aristocratic Privilege Of Silence Belongs, You Soon Find Out, To Only The Happy State- Or, At Least, To The State When Pain Keeps Within Bounds.

Some People Are Molded By Their Admirations, Others By Their Hostilities.

Nobody Can Be Kinder Than The Narcissist While You React To Life In His Own Terms.