Truffles Must Come To The Table In

Don't Cudgel Your Brains Over My Little Problems.

To Write Is To Pour One’s Innermost Self Passionately Upon The Tempting Paper, At Such Frantic Speed That Sometimes One’s Hand Struggles And Rebels, Overdriven By The Impatient God Which Guides It - And To Find, Next Day, In Place Of The Golden Bough That Bloomed Miraculously In That Dazzling Hour, A Withered Bramble And A Stunted Flower.

Look For A Long Time At What Pleases You, And A Longer Time At What Pains You.

I Want Nothing From Love, In Short, But Love.

Perhaps The Only Misplaced Curiosity Is That Which Persists In Trying To Find Out Here, On This Side Of Death, What Lies Beyond The Grave.