Novels Are Longer Than Life.

We Know All Their Gods; They Ignore Ours. What They Call Our Sins Are Our Gods, And What They Call Their Gods, We Name Otherwise.

The Finest Life Is Spent Creating Oneself, Not Procreating.

At First, When An Idea, A Poem, Or The Desire To Write Takes Hold Of You, Work Is A Pleasure, A Delight, And Your Enthusiasm Knows No Bounds. But Later On You Work With Difficulty, Doggedly, Desperately. For Once You Have Committed Yourself To A Particular Work, Inspiration Changes Its Form And Becomes An Obsession, Like A Love-affair… Which Haunts You Night And Day! Once At Grips With A Work, We Must Master It Completely Before We Can Recover Our Idleness.

Why Grab Possessions Like Thieves, Or Divide Them Like Socialists When You Can Ignore Them Like Wise Men?

To Be One's Own Master Is To Be The Slave Of Self.