The True Work Of Art

No-one Was Ever Made Wretched In A Brothel.

We Love But Once, For Once Only Are We Perfectly Equipped For Loving.

I Review Novels To Make Money, Because It Is Easier For A Sluggard To Write An Article A Fortnight Than A Book A Year, Because The Writer Is Soothed By The Opiate Of Action, The Crank By Posing As A Good Journalist, And Having An Air Hole. I Dislike It. I Do It And I Am Always Resolving To Give It Up.

Better To Write For Yourself And Have No Public, Than To Write For The Public And Have No Self.

When I Contemplate The Accumulation Of Guilt And Remorse Which, Like A Garbage-can, I Carry Through Life, And Which Is Fed Not Only By The Lightest Action But By The Most Harmless Pleasure, I Feel Man To Be Of All Living Things The Most Biologically Incompetent And Ill-organized. Why Has He Acquired A Seventy Years Life-span Only To Poison It Incurably By The Mere Being Of Himself? Why Has He Thrown Conscience, Like A Dead Rat, To Putrefy In The Well?