The Only Friends I Have Are The

We Publish Only To Satisfy Out Craving For Fame; There's No Other Motive Except The Even Baser One Of Making Money.

The Only Friends I Have Are The Dead Who Have Bequeathed Their Writings To Me — I Have No Others.

Instead Of Committing Suicide, People Go To Work.

You've Always Lived A Life Of Pretense, Not A Real Life-- A Simulated Existence, Not A Genuine Existence. Everything About You, Everything You Are, Has Always Been Pretense, Never Genuine, Never Real.

Everything Is What It Is, That's All. If We Keep Attaching Meanings And Mysteries To Everything We Perceive, Everything We See That Is, And To Everything That Goes On Inside Us, We Are Bound To Go Crazy Sooner Or Later, I Thought.