The Aim Of Art, The Aim Of

We Continue To Shape Our Personality All Our Life. If We Knew Ourselves Perfectly, We Should Die.

No Doubt Our Love Was Still There, But Quite Simply It Was Unusable, Heavy To Carry, Inert Inside Of Us, Sterile As Crime Or Condemnation. It Was No Longer Anything Except A Patience With No Future And A Stubborn Wait.

To Be Famous, In Fact, One Has Only To Kill One's Landlady.

He Had Been Bored, That's All, Bored Like Most People. Hence He Had Made Himself Out Of Whole Cloth A Life Full Of Complications And Drama. Something Must Happen - And That Explains Most Human Commitments. Something Must Happen, Even Loveless Slavery, Even War Or Death. Hurray Then For Funerals!

Find Your Happiness In Yourself.