No One Over Thirty-five Is

The Artist Secretes Nostalgia Around Life.

Literature Is The Art Of Writing Something That Will Be Read Twice; Journalism What Will Be Grasped At Once.

When In Doubt, Choose Greatness.

In The Dream Of Approaching Forty I Saw Myself As About To Die And Realized That I Was No Longer Myself, But A Creature Inhabited Entirely By Parasites, As A Caterpillar Is Occupied By The Grubs Of The Ichneumon Fly. Gin, Whisky, Sloth, Fear, Guilt, Tobacco, Had Made Themselves My Inquilines; Alcohol Sloshed About Within, While Tendrils Of Melon And Vine Grew Out Of Ears And Nostrils; My Mind Was A Worn Gramophone Record, My True Self Was Such A Ruin As To Seem Non-existent, And All This Had Happened In The Last Three Years.

The Friendships Which Last Are Those Wherein Each Friend Respects The Other's Dignity To The Point Of Not Really Wanting Anything From Him.