Here I Am Trying To

After The Writer's Death, Reading His Journal Is Like Receiving A Long Letter.

The Artist Is A Kind Of Prison From Which The Works Of Art Escape.

Inspiration Arrived As A Result Of Profound Indolence... I Awoke With A Start And Witnessed As From A Seat In A Theatre, Three Acts Of A Potentially Awesome Play.

The World Owes Its Enchantment To These Curious Creatures And Their Fancies; But Its Multiple Complicity Rejects Them. Thistledown Spirits, Tragic, Heartrending In Their Evanescence, They Must Go Blowing Headlong To Perdition.

Keep Braiding One's Wavelengths Back Into Oneself. That Way They Gain All The More External Power And Surround Us With A Huge Affective And Protective Zone. Don't Talk About This. Never Talk About Our Secret Methods. If We Talk About Them, They Stop Working.