Caught Up In Life, You See It

I Am Irritated By My Own Writing. I Am Like A Violinist Whose Ear Is True, But Whose Fingers Refuse To Reproduce Precisely The Sound He Hears Within.

Read In Order To Live.

Better To Work For Yourself Alone. You Do As You Like And Follow Your Own Ideas, You Admire Yourself And Please Yourself: Isn’t That The Main Thing? And Then The Public Is So Stupid. Besides, Who Reads? And What Do They Read? And What Do They Admire?

My Foregrounds Are Imaginary, My Backgrounds Real.

I Am A Man-pen. I Feel Through The Pen, Because Of The Pen.