It's Great People Still Care About Books,

All A Work Of Art Can Do Is Present The Surface. I Can't Know The Insides Of People. I Know Very Little About The Inside Of Myself.

Fictional Characters Are Made Of Words, Not Flesh; They Do Not Have Free Will, They Do Not Exercise Volition. They Are Easily Born, And As Easily Killed Off.

I Don't Make A Distinction Between Men And Women. To Me They Are Just People.

These Days I Must Take The World In Small And Carefully Measured Doses. It Is A Sort Of Homeopathic Cure I Am Undergoing, Though I Am Not Certain What This Cure Is Meant To Mend. Perhaps I Am Learning To Live Amongst The Living Again. Practising, I Mean. But No, That Is Not It. Being Here Is Just A Way Of Not Being Anywhere.

What Is Money, After All? Almost Nothing, When One Has A Sufficiency Of It.