A Task, Any Task, Undertaken

Writing In English Is Like Throwing Mud At A Wall.

Any Work That Aspires, However Humbly, To The Condition Of Art Should Carry Its Justification In Every Line.

I Let Him Run On, This Papier-maché Mephistopheles, And It Seemed To Me That If I Tried I Could Poke My Forefinger Through Him, And Would Find Nothing Inside But A Little Loose Dirt, Maybe.

A Certain Simplicity Of Thought Is Common To Serene Souls At Both Ends Of The Social Scale.

It Is A Maudlin And Indecent Verity That Comes Out Through The Strength Of Wine.