Honesty, For Me, Is Usually The Worst

My Imagination Functions Much Better When I Don't Have To Speak To People.

In View Of The Fact That I Surround Myself With Numbskulls Now, I Shall Die Among Numbskulls, And On My Deathbed Shall Be Surrounded By Numbskulls Who Will Not Understand What I Am Saying ... Whom Am I Sleeping With These Days ? Franz Kafka.

I Can't Write If Someone Else Is In The House, Not Even The Cleaning Woman.

Each Book Is, In A Sense, An Argument With Myself, And I Would Write It, Whether It Is Ever Published Or Not.

How Was It Possible To Be Afraid And In Love... The Two Things Did Not Go Together. How Was It Possible To Be Afraid, When The Two Of Them Grew Stronger Together Every Day? And Every Night. Every Night Was Different, And Every Morning. Together They Possessed A Miracle.