The Cult Of Art Gives Pride; One

Years Passed; And He Endured The Idleness Of His Intelligence And The Inertia Of His Heart.

The Morality Of Art Is In Its Very Beauty.

I Am Alone On This Road Strewn With Bones And Bordered By Ruins! Angels Have Their Brothers, And Demons Have Their Infernal Companions. Yet I Have But The Sound Of My Scythe When It Harvests, My Whistling Arrows, My Galloping Horse. Always The Sound Of The Same Wave Eating Away At The World

Stupidity Lies In Wanting To Draw Conclusions.

In My View, The Novelist Has No Right To Express His Opinions On The Things Of This World. In Creating, He Must Imitate God: Do His Job And Then Shut Up.