The Humble Were The Elect

I Held Out My Book. It Was Precious To Me, As Were All The Things I'd Written; Even Where I Despised Their Inadequacy There Was Not One I Would Disown. Each Tore Its Way From My Entrails. Each Had Shortened My Life, Killed Me With Its Own Special Little Death.

Hope Is A Punishable Offense. The Verdict Is Always Death; One More Death Of The Heart.

If They Had Said My Writing Wasn't Good Enough, Fair Enough, That's An Opinion. But To Say It's Too Complex Is To Insult The Intelligence Of The So-called Young.

Men Are Not The Causers Of History. History Itself, By A Pressure Of Events, Causes Men To Resort To Particular Actions.

Flat Or Round, There Has Always Been Hate In The World.