Literature Is The Art Of Discovering Something

But The Division In Him Was A Sorrow And A Torment, And He Became Accustomed To It Only As One Gets Used To An Unhealed And Frequently Reopened Wound.

As Before The Collapse, The Setting Sun Brushed The Tiles, Brought Out The Warm Brown Glow On The Wallpaper, And Hung The Shadow Of The Birch On The Wall As If It Were A Woman's Scarf.

About Dreams. It Is Usually Taken For Granted That You Dream Of Something That Has Made A Particularly Strong Impression On You During The Day, But It Seems To Me It´s Just The Contrary. Often It´s Something You Paid No Attention To At The Time -- A Vague Thought That You Didn´t Bother To Think Out To The End, Words Spoken Without Feeling And Which Passed Unnoticed -- These Are The Things That Return At Night, Clothed In Flesh And Blood, And They Become The Subjects Of Dreams, As If To Make Up For Having Been Ignored During Waking Hours.

I Don't Like People Who Have Never Fallen Or Stumbled. Their Virtue Is Lifeless And It Isn't Of Much Value. Life Hasn't Revealed Its Beauty To Them.

I Hate Everything You Say, But Not Enough To Kill You For It.