O God, Let Me Write Books! Please,

Nothing Is More Consuming, Or More Illogical, Than The Desire For Remembrance.

There Is A Terrible Loneliness In The Spring.

What Was Time Itself But The Bloom, The Sheath Enfolding Experience? Within Time, And With Time Alone, There Was Life - The Gleam, The Quiver, The Heartbeat, The Immeasurable Joy And Anguish Of Being.

What I Hated Even More Than The Conflict Was The Lurid Spectacle Of A World Of Unreason.

The Attraction Of Horror Is A Mental, Or Even An Intellectual, Excitement, But The Fascination Of The Repulsive, So Noticeable Incontemporary Writing, Can Spring Openly From Some Rotted Substance Within Our Civilization.