A Story? No. No Stories, Never Again.

Literature Professes To Be Important While At The Same Time Considering Itself An Object Of Doubt. It Confirms Itself As It Disparages Itself. It Seeks Itself: This Is More Than It Has A Right To Do, Because Literature May Be One Of Those Things Which Deserve To Be Found But Not To Be Sought.

A Story? No. No Stories, Never Again.

There Is Between Sleep And Us Something Like A Pact, A Treaty With No Secret Clauses, And According To This Convention It Is Agreed That, Far From Being A Dangerous, Bewitching Force, Sleep Will Become Domesticated And Serve As An Instrument Of Our Power To Act. We Surrender To Sleep, But In The Way That The Master Entrusts Himself To The Slave Who Serves Him.

The Journal Is Not Essentially A Confession, A Story About Oneself. It Is A Memorial. What Does The Writer Have To Remember? Himself, Who He Is When He Is Not Writing, When He Is Living His Daily Life, When He Is Alive And Real, And Not Dying And Without Truth.

Lovers Of Painting And Lovers Of Music Are People Who Openly Display Their Preference Like A Delectable Ailment That Isolates Them And Makes Them Proud.