Of All Lies, Art Is The Least

Beautiful Things Spoil Nothing.

Maybe Happiness Too Is A Metaphor Invented On A Day Of Boredom

A Man Is A Critic When He Cannot Be An Artist, In The Same Way That A Man Becomes An Informer When He Cannot Be A Soldier.

The Style, Which Is Something I Take To Heart, Is Getting On My Nerves Horribly. It Frustrates And Torments Me. I Have Days When Iam Sick About It And Nights When It Gives Me A Fever. The More I Go At It The More I Find Myself Incapable Of Conveying The Idea.

Prose Is Like Hair; It Shines With Combing.