The Purpose Of A Writer Is To

As Soon As One Does Not Kill Oneself, One Must Keep Silent About Life.

Without Memories, Without Hope, They Lived For The Moment Only. Indeed, The Here And Now Had Come To Mean Everything To Them. For There Is No Denying That The Plague Had Gradually Killed Off In All Of Us The Faculty Not Of Love Only But Even Of Friendship. Naturally Enough, Since Love Asks Something Of The Future, And Nothing Was Left Us But A Series Of Present Moments.

I Do Not Have Much Liking For The Too Famous Existential Philosophy, And, To Tell The Truth, I Think Its Conclusions False.

To Grow Old Is To Pass From Passion To Compassion.

Happiness Is Generous. It Does Not Subsist On Destruction.