Music Is The Refuge Of Souls Ulcerated

Is It Possible That Existence Is Our Exile And Nothingness Our Home?

What Necessity Impels A Writer Who Has Produced Fifty Books To Write Still One More? Why This Proliferation, This Fear Of Being Forgotten, This Debased Coquetry?

Anyone Can Escape Into Sleep, We Are All Geniuses When We Dream, The Butcher's The Poet's Equal There.

Life Is Possible Only By The Deficiencies Of Our Imagination And Memory.

An Individual Dies ... When, Instead Of Taking Risks And Hurling Himself Toward Being, He Cowers Within, And Takes Refuge There.