In Our Time, When The Literature For

The Pessimism Of The Creative Person Is Not Decadence But A Mighty Passion For The Redemption Of Man.

Every Body Resisted (the Slaughterer) In Its Own Fashion, Tried To Escape And Seemed To Argue With The Creator To Its Last Breath.

Every Creator Painfully Experiences The Chasm Between His Inner Vision And Its Ultimate Expression. The Chasm Is Never Completely Bridged. We All Have The Conviction, Perhaps Illusory, That We Have Much More To Say Than Appears On The Paper.

When A Day Passes, It Is No Longer There. What Remains Of It? Nothing More Than A Story. If Stories Weren't Told Or Books Weren't Written, Man Would Live Like The Beasts, Only For The Day.

There Will Be No Justice As Long As Man Will Stand With A Knife Or With A Gun And Destroy Those Who Are Weaker Than He Is.