Books Dont Need Batteries

As Writers, We Are Exploring The Mystery, The Mystery Of Existence.

I'm Forty-nine But I Could Be Twenty-five Except For My Face And My Legs.

A Truly Living Human Being Cannot Remain Neutral.

It Was A Miracle; It Was All A Miracle: And One Ought To Have Known, From The Sufferings Of Saints, That Miracles Are Horror.

The Creative Act Is Not Pure. History Evidences It. Sociology Extracts It. The Writer Loses Eden, Writes To Be Read And Comes To Realize That He Is Answerable.