The Object Of Art Is To Give

Obligations, Hatreds, Injuries; What Did I Expect My Memories To Be? I Was Forgetting Remorse. Now I Have A Complete Past.

Life Consists Of Nothing More Than The Happiness We Can Get Out Of It.

It Is Restful, Tragedy, Because One Knows That There Is No More Lousy Hope Left. You Know You're Caught, Caught At Last Like A Rat With All The World On Its Back. And The Only Thing Left To Do Is Shout - Not Moan, Or Complain, But Yell Out At The Top Of Your Voice Whatever It Was You Had To Say. What You've Never Said Before. What Perhaps You Don't Even Know Till Now.

Inspiration? - A Hoax Fabricated By Poets For Their Self-importance.

Inspiration Is A Farce That Poets Have Invented To Give Themselves Importance.