Nothing Matters But The Writing. There Has

Words And Images Run Riot In My Head, Pursuing, Flying, Clashing, Merging, Endlessly. But Beyond This Tumult There Is A Great Calm, And A Great Indifference, Never Really To Be Troubled By Anything Again.

I Had Little Talent For Happiness.

Suffering Is The Main Condition Of The Artistic Experience.

The End Of A Life Is Always Vivifying.

I Say Me, Knowing All The While It's Not Me.