The End Of Lower Art

I Never Was But An Isolated Bon Vivant, Which Is Absurd; Or A Mystic Bon Vivant, Which Is An Impossible Thing.

My Soul's The Present Shadow Of A Presence Gone.

I Bear The Wounds Of All The Battles I Avoided.

The Perfect Man Of Pagans Was The Perfection Of The Man There Is; The Perfect Man Of Christians, The Perfection Of The Man There Isn't; The Buddhists' Perfect Man, The Perfection Of Not Existing A Man.

I’m Losing My Taste For Everything, Including Even My Taste For Finding Everything Tasteless.