Poverty Is A Great Cutter-off And Riches

A Critic Is A Lug-worm In The Liver Of Literature.

Does Not Everything Depend On Our Interpretation Of The Silence Around Us?

An Idea Is Like A Rare Bird Which Cannot Be Seen. What One Sees Is The Trembling Of The Branch It Has Just Left.

No History Much? Perhaps. Only This Ominous Dark Beauty Flowering Under Veils, Trapped In The Spectrum Of A Dying Style: A Village Like An Instinct Left To Rust, Composed Around The Echo Of A Pistol-shot.

I Suppose The Secret Of His Success Is In His Tremendous Idleness Which Almost Approaches The Supernatural.