It Is Much Easier To

I Would Love To Spend All My Time Writing To You; I'd Love To Share With You All That Goes Through My Mind, All That Weighs On My Heart, All That Gives Air To My Soul; Phantoms Of Art, Dreams That Would Be So Beautiful If They Could Come True.

Not One Of Us Can Lie Or Pretend. We're All Fixed In Good Faith In A Certain Concept Of Ourselves.

The Man, The Writer, The Instrument Of The Creation Will Die, But His Creation Does Not Die.

When A Character Is Born, He Acquires At Once Such An Independence, Even Of His Own Author, That He Can Be Imagined By Everybody Even In Many Other Situations Where The Author Never Dreamed Of Placing Him; And So He Acquires For Himself A Meaning Which The Author Never Thought Of Giving Him.

We All Grasp On To A Single Idea Of Ourselves, The Way Aging People Dye Their Hair. It’s No Matter That This Dye Doesn’t Fool You. My Lady, You Don’t Dye Your Hair To Decieve Other People, Or To Fool Yourself, But Rather To Cheat Your Image In Your Mirror A Little.