Writing Is Like Paying Myself A Formal

Wise Is He Who Enjoys The Show Offered By The World.

Whenever Someone Tells Me He Dreamed, I Wonder If He Realizes That He Has Never Done Anything But Dream.

The Chill Of What I Won't Feel Gnaws At My Present Heart.

My Happiest Hours Are Those In Which I Think Nothing, Want Nothing, When I Do Not Even Dream, But Lose Myself In Some Spurious Vegetable Torpor, Moss Growing On The Surface Of Life. Without A Trace Of Bitterness I Savour My Absurd Awareness Of Being Nothing, A Mere Foretaste Of Death And Extinction.

Never Read A Book To The End, Nor Even In Sequence And Without Skipping.