I Like Ideas. I Find Them More

No Two Things The Same, The Equals Sign A Scandal.

I Would Be Far More Critical Than Any Reviewer Could Be Of My Own Work. So I Simply Don't Read Them.

All A Work Of Art Can Do Is Present The Surface. I Can't Know The Insides Of People. I Know Very Little About The Inside Of Myself.

All My Life I Have Lied. I Lied To Escape, I Lied To Be Loved, I Lied For Placement And Power; I Lied To Lie. It Was A Way Of Living; Lies Are Life's Almost-anagram.

And Indeed Nothing Had Happened, A Momentous Nothing, Just Another Of The Great World's Shrugs Of Indifference.