Art Is The Mirror Of Our Betrayed

We Use Our Parents Like Recurring Dreams, To Be Entered Into When Needed.

Think Wrongly, If You Please, But In All Cases Think For Yourself.

Time Is The River On Which The Leaves Of Our Thoughts Are Carried Into Oblivion.

He Destroyed In Her The Knowing, Doubting, Sophisticated Ella, And Again And Again He Put Her Intelligence To Sleep, And With Her Willing Connivance, So That She Floated Darkly On Her Love For Him, On Her Naivety, Which Is Another Word For A Spontaneous Creative Faith. And When His Own Distrust Of Himself Destroyed This Woman-in-love, So That She Began Thinking, She Would Fight To Return To Naivety.

There Are No Laws For The Novel. There Never Have Been, Nor Can There Ever Be.