I Love My Work But Do Not

Fishermen, No Matter What Supreme Good Fortune Befalls Them, Cannot Ever Be Absolutely Satisfied. It Is A Fundamental Weakness Of Intellect.

What Makes Life Worth Living? Better Surely, To Yield To The Stain Of Suicide Blood In Me And Seek Forgetfulness In The Embrace Of Cold Dark Death.

The Difficulty, The Ordeal, Is To Start.

Realism Is Death To Me. I Cannot Stand Life As It Is.

The Indian Story Has Never Been Written. Maybe I Am The Man To Do It.