It's A Town You Come To For

To Hell With Luck. I'll Bring The Luck With Me.

Once Writing Has Become Your Major Vice And Greatest Pleasure Only Death Can Stop It.

All You Need To Do Is Write Truly And Not Care About What The Fate Of It Is.

He No Longer Dreamed Of Storms, Nor Of Women, Nor Of Great Occurrences, Nor Of Great Fish, Nor Fights, Nor Contests Of Strength, Nor Of His Wife. He Only Dreamed Of Places Now And The Lions On The Beach. They Played Like Young Cats In The Dusk And He Loved Them As He Loved The Boy. He Never Dreamed About The Boy. He Simply Woke, Looked Out The Open Door At The Moon And Unrolled His Trousers And Put Them On.

If Two People Love Each Other There Can Be No Happy End To It.