He's Satisfied With Himself. If You Have

They Think My Mother's Ashes Are Marijuana.

Writing Is A Form Of Therapy; Sometimes I Wonder How All Those Who Do Not Write, Compose Or Paint Can Manage To Escape The Madness, Melancholia, The Panic And Fear Which Is Inherent In A Human Situation.

Of Two Hearts One Is Always Warm And One Is Always Cold: The Cold Heart Is More Precious Than Diamonds: The Warm Heart Has No Value And Is Thrown Away.

So It Always Is: When You Escape To A Desert The Silence Shouts In Your Ear.

The Subject Of A Novel Is Not The Plot. Who Remembers What Happened To Lucien De Rebempre In The End?