Fiction Is The Lie Through Which We

You Have To Be Very Rich Or Very Poor To Live Without A Trade.

Great Feelings Take With Them Their Own Universe, Splendid Or Abject.

Everybody Knows That Pestilences Have A Way Of Recurring In The World; Yet Somehow We Find It Hard To Believe In Ones That Crash Down On Our Heads From A Blue Sky.

I Have Always Felt I Lived On The High Seas, Threatened, At The Heart Of A Royal Happiness.

The Only Really Committed Artist Is He Who, Without Refusing To Take Part In The Combat, At Least Refuses To Join The Regular Armies And Remains A Freelance.