I've Always Been Suspicious Of Collective Truths.

All Cats Die. Socrates Is Dead. Therefore Socrates Is A Cat.

The Critic Should Describe, And Not Prescribe.

I Have No Other Pictures Of The World Apart From Those Which Express Evanescence, And Callousness, Vanity And Anger, Emptiness, Orhideous Useless Hate. Everything Has Merely Confirmed What I Had Seen And Understood In My Childhood: Futile And Sordid Fits Of Rage, Cries Suddenly Blanketed By The Silence, Shadows Swallowed Up For Ever By The Night.

To Become Conscious Of What Is Horrifying And To Laugh At It Is To Become Master Of That Which Is Horrifying

A Man With A Soul Is Not Like Every Other Man.