If Life Is Misery, Why Do We

When People Read His Books They Have An Uncontrollable Desire To Hang The Author In The Town Square. I Can’t Think Of A Higher Honor For A Writer.

Only In Chaos Are We Conceivable.

We Interpret Life At Moments Of The Deepest Desperation.

As Time Goes By, As Time Goes By, The Whip-crack Of The Years, The Precipice Of Illusions, The Ravine That Swallows Up All Human Endeavour Except The Struggle To Survive.

If You're Going To Say What You Want To Say, You're Going To Hear What You Don't Want To Hear.