Perhaps I Know To What Extent I

After The Writer's Death, Reading His Journal Is Like Receiving A Long Letter.

Elegance Ceases To Exist When It Is Noticed.

Artists Can No More Speak About Their Work, Than Plants Can Speak About Horticulture.

He Has The Manner Of A Giant With The Look Of A Child, A Lazy Activeness, A Mad Wisdom, A Solitude Encompassing The World.

Be A Mere Assistant To Your Unconscious. Do Only Half The Work. The Rest Will Do Itself.