As Long As The Writer Cannot Write

If You Are Lonely When You're Alone, You Are In Bad Company.

It Is Better; Heavier, Crueler. The Mouth You Wear For Hell.

He Was Free, Free In Every Way, Free To Behave Like A Fool Or A Machine, Free To Accept, Free To Refuse, Free To Equivocate; To Marry, To Give Up The Game, To Drag This Death Weight About With Him For Years To Come. He Could Do What He Liked, No One Had The Right To Advise Him, There Would Be For Him No Good Or Evil Unless He Thought Them Into Being.

The More Absurd Life Is, The More Insupportable Death Is.

Take [stéphane] Mallarme. I Hold Him To Be The Greatest Of French Poets, And I Have Taken Some Time To Understand Him !