I Hated The Words. Each One Was

Once You've Stopped Loving Someone Breaking His Or Her Heart's Just An Unpleasant Chore You Have To Get Behind You. My God, You Really Don't Love Me Anymore, Do You? No Matter Your Decency The Victim's Incredulity's Potentially Hilarious. You Manage Not To Laugh.

No Artist Knows Everything... But Since Every Artist Knows More Than He Can Tell, All Art Is Lying By Omission.

Literature Is Humanity's Broad-minded Alter-ego, With Room In Its Heart For Monsters, Even For You. It's Humanity Without The Judgement.

Pain Is Beyond Reason, An Obliterating Giant Stupidity To Which All Your History Of Jokes And Nuance And Ideas And Caresses Is Nothing, Simply Nothing.

Life's Generally Artless ... But It Does Get These Occasional Hard-ons For Plot. It Connects Things, Nefariously, Behind Your Back, And Before You Know It You're In The Final Act Of A Lousy Movie.