Betrayal Is Beautiful.

Though They May Not Always Be Handsome Men Doomed To Evil Posses The Manly Virtues.

Perhaps All Music, Even The Newest, Is Not So Much Something Discovered As Something That Re-emerges From Where It Lay Buried In The Memory, Inaudible As A Melody Cut In A Disc Of Flesh. A Composer Lets Me Hear A Song That Has Always Been Shut Up Silent Within Me.

I Give The Name Violence To A Boldness Lying Idle And Enamored Of Danger.

They Remain Dead, The People I Try To Resuscitate By Straining To Hear What They Say. But The Illusion Is Not Pointless, Or Not Quite, Even If The Reader Knows All This Better Than I Do. One Thing A Book Tries To Do, Beneath The Disguise Of Words And Causes And Clothes And Grief, Is Show The Skeleton And The Skeleton Dust To Come. The Author Too, Like Those Of Whom He Speaks, Is Dead.

A Man Must Dream A Long Time In Order To Act With Grandeur, And Dreaming Is Nursed In Darkness.