But In My Arms She

All Great Novels Are Great Fairy Tales.

The Thought, When Written Down, Becomes Less Oppressive, But Some Thoughts Are Like A Cancerous Tumor: You Express Is, You Excise It, And It Grows Back Worse Than Before.

My Loathings Are Simple. Stupidity, Oppression, Crime, Cruelty, Soft Music. My Pleasures Are The Most Intense Known To Man: Writing And Butterfly Hunting.

No Author Has Created With Less Emphasis Such Pathetic Characters As Chekhov Has.

One Is Always At Home In One's Past.