A Brilliant Liar; He Has

I Am A Collection Of The Family's Body Parts.

You Are Ugly When You Love Her, You Are Beautiful And Fresh, Vital And Free, Modern And Poetic When You Don't... You Are More Beautiful As An Orphan Than As Your Mother's Son.

We Say 'forest' But This Word Is Made Of The Unknown, The Unfamiliar, The Unencompassed. The Earth. Clods Of Dirt. Pebbles. On A Clear Day You Rest Among Ordinary, Everyday Things That Have Been Familiar To You Since Childhood, Grass, Bushes, A Dog (or A Cat), A Chair, But That Changes When You Realize That Every Object Is An Enormous Army, An Inexhaustible Swarm.

If He [the Artist] Were To Take Up The Pen It Would Be...to Better Express His Individuality And Explain It To Others; Or Else To Put His Internal Affairs In Order...to Deepen And Sharpen His Relationship With His Fellow Men Because Other Souls Exert An Immense And Creative Influence On Our Soul; Or To Try To Fight For A World As He Would Like It To Be, For A World That Is Indispensable To His Life.

I Am Reading Sienkiewicz. What Tormenting Reading. What A Powerful Genius! And There Never Was Such A First-rate Writer Of The Second-rate Class.