Nothing Is Poorer Than A Truth Expressed

Every Passion Borders On The Chaotic, But The Collector's Passion Borders On The Chaos Of Memories.

In The End, We Get Older, We Kill Everyone Who Loves Us Through The Worries We Give Them, Through The Troubled Tenderness We Inspire In Them, And The Fears We Ceaselessly Cause.

He Who Seeks To Approach His Own Buried Past Must Conduct Himself Like A Man Digging... This Confers The Tone And Bearing Of Genuine Reminiscences. He Must Not Be Afraid To Return Again And Again To The Same Matter; To Scatter It As One Scatters Earth, To Turn It Over As One Turns Over Soil.

No Poem Is Intended For The Reader, No Picture For The Beholder, No Symphony For The Listener.

A Bearer Of News Of Death Appears To Himself As Very Important. His Feeling - Even Against All Reason - Makes Him A Messenger From The Realm Of The Dead.