After All, There Is Nothing But Failure.

Those Are Terrible People Who Don't Like Glenn Gould... I Will Have Nothing To Do With Such People, They Are Dangerous People.

I Really Only Write About Inner Landscapes And Most People Don't See Them, Because They See Practically Nothing Within, Because They Think That Because It's Inside, It's Dark, And So They Don't See Anything. I Don't Think I've Ever Yet, In Any Of My Books, Described A Landscape. There's Really Nothing Of The Kind In Any Of Them. I Only Ever Write Concepts. And So I'm Always Referring To "mountains" Or "a City" Or "streets." But As To How They Look: I've Never Produced A Description Of A Landscape. That's Never Even Interested Me.

Women Were Like Rivers, Their Banks Were Unreachable, The Night Often Rang With The Cries Of The Drowned.

Everything Is What It Is, That's All. If We Keep Attaching Meanings And Mysteries To Everything We Perceive, Everything We See That Is, And To Everything That Goes On Inside Us, We Are Bound To Go Crazy Sooner Or Later, I Thought.

We Can Only Exist By Taking Our Minds Off The Fact That We Exist