The Thoughts Of My Emotionally So Disturbed

Clothes, When Abstracted From The Flow Of Present Time And Their Transmogrifying Function On The Human Body, And Seen As Forms In Themselves, Are Strange Tubes And Excrescences Worthy Of Being Classed With Such Facial Decorations As The Ring Through The Nose Or The Lip-stretching Disk. But How Enchanting They Become When Seen Togetherwith The Qualities They Bestow On Their Wearer! What Happens Then Is No Less Than The Infusion, Into Some Tangled Lines On A Piece Of Paper, Of The Meaning Of A Great Word.

... For The Modern Soul, For Which It Is Mere Child's Play To Bridge Oceans And Continents, There Is Nothing So Impossible As To Find The Contact With The Souls Dwelling Just Around The Corner.

Writing [for The Novelist] Is Not An Activity, But A Condition. That Is Why One Simply Can't Resume The Work When One Has A Job And A Free Half-day. Reading Is The Conveyance Of This Condition.

What Is Perceptible To One’s Mistrust Is The Cut-and-dried Way That Life Is Divided Up And The Ready-made Form It Assumes, The Ever-recurring Sameness Of It, The Pre-formations Passed Down By Generation After Generation, The Ready-made Language Not Only Of The Tongue But Also Of The Sensations And The Feelings.

You See How Wrong I Go, How Ridiculous I'm Making Myself In Your Eyes By Keeping On Guessing Wrong Like This! Doesn't That Help You To Come Out With It? Come On Now!