Genius, Like Truth, Has A

Recognize The Cunning Man Not By The Corpses He Pays Homage To But By The Living Writers He Conspires Against With The Most Shameful Weapon, Silence, Or The Briefest Review.

We Can Only Write Well About Our Sins Because It Is Too Difficult To Recall A Virtuous Act Or Even Whether It Was The Result Of Good Or Evil Motives.

A Painter Can Hang His Pictures, But A Writer Can Only Hang Himself.

The Bad Poet Is A Toady Mimicking Nature.

Everything Ultimately Fails, For We Die, And That Is Either The Penultimate Failure Or Our Most Enigmatical Achievement.