The Desire To Write Perfectly Of Beautiful

I Was Born, I Think, With The Desire To Make Beautiful Books — Brave Books That Would Preserve The Glories Of The Dream Untarnished, And Would Re-create Them For Battered People, And Re-awaken Joy And Magnanimity.

Whatever Pretended Pessimists In Search Of Notoriety May Say, Most People Are Naturally Kind, At Heart.

There Is No Escaping, At Times, The Gloomy Suspicion That Fiddling With Pens And Ink Is, After All, No Fit Employment For A Grown Man.

I Fear You And, Yes, I Love You: And Yet I Cannot Believe. Why Could You Not Let Me Believe, Where So Many Believed? Or Else, Why Could You Not Let Me Deride, As The Remainder Derided So Noisily? O God, Why Could You Not Let Me Have Faith? For You Gave Me No Faith In Anything, Not Even In Nothingness. It Was Not Fair.

I Take It That I Must Be The Eternal Playfellow Of Time. For Piety And Common-sense And Death Are Rightfully Time's Toys; And It Is With These Three That I Divert Myself.