The Artist Is A Member Of The

Idleness Is Only A Coarse Name For My Infinite Capacity For Living In The Present.

The Artist Secretes Nostalgia Around Life.

Believing In Hell Must Distort Every Judgement On This Life.

It Is A Consolation Of Human Life That The Sick Forget What It Is Like To Feel Well, Or The Miserable To Be Happy.

If Montaigne Is A Man In The Prime Of Life Sitting In His Study On A Warm Morning And Putting Down The Sum Of His Experience In His Rich, Sinewy Prose, Then Pascal Is That Same Man Lying Awake In The Small Hours Of The Night When Death Seems Very Close And Every Thought Is Heightened By The Apprehension That It May Be His Last.