In My View, The Novelist Has No

[the Artist] Is Like A Pump; He Has Inside Him A Great Pipe That Reaches Down Into The Entrails Of Things, The Deepest Layers. He Sucks Up What Was Lying There Below, Dim And Unnoticed, And Brings It In Great Jets To The Sunlight.

It's A Delicious Thing To Write. To Be No Longer Yourself But To Move In An Entire Universe Of Your Own Creating.

But An Infinity Of Passions Can Be Contained In A Minute, Like A Crowd In A Tiny Space.

The More You Approach Infinity, The Deeper You Penetrate Terror

Cold. Healthier Than Heat.