Solitude Was Corrupting Me.

I Cannot Disobey Something Which I Do Not Know And The Reality Of Which I Have The Right To Deny.

Literature Was Not Born The Day When A Boy Crying "wolf, Wolf" Came Running Out Of The Neanderthal Valley With A Big Gray Wolf At His Heels; Literature Was Born On The Day When A Boy Came Crying "wolf, Wolf" And There Was No Wolf Behind Him.

I Have No Desires, Save The Desire To Express Myself In Defiance Of All The World’s Muteness.

Devices Which In Some Curious New Way Imitate Nature Are Attractive To Simple Minds.

If A Violin String Could Ache, I Would Be That String.