The Position Of Women, That Sad And

Words, Living And Ghostly, The Quick And The Dead, Crowd And Jostle The Otherwise Too Empty Corridors Of My Mind ... To Move Among This Bright, Strange, Often Fabulous Herd Of Beings, To Summon Them At My Will, To Fasten Them On To Paper Like Flies, That They May Decorate It, This Is The Pleasure Of Writing.

One Could Do With A Longer Year - So Much To Do, So Little Done, Alas.

The Superior Thing ... Was To Be Late. Lateness Showed That Serene Contempt For The Illusion We Call Time Which Is So Necessary To Ensure The Respect Of Others And Oneself. Only The Servile Are Punctual.

Life Is One Long Struggle To Disinter Oneself, To Keep One's Head Above The Accumulations, The Ever Deepening Layers Of Objects ... Which Attempt To Cover One Over, Steadily, Almost Irresistibly, Like Falling Snow.

The Impulse To Ask Questions Is Among The More Primitive Human Lusts.