What I Believe To Be

Without Work, All Life Goes Rotten. But When Work Is Soulless, Life Stifles And Dies.

Stupidity Has A Knack Of Getting Its Way.

Creating Is Living Doubly. The Groping, Anxious Quest Of A Proust, His Meticulous Collecting Of Flowers, Of Wallpapers, And Of Anxieties, Signifies Nothing Else.

My Profession Lent Itself Nicely To My Vocation For Heights. It Freed Me Of Any Bitterness Towards My Fellow Men, Who Were Alwaysin My Debt, Without My Owing Them Anything. It Placed Me Above The Judge Whom, I In Turn Judged, Above The Defendant Whom I Forced Into Gratitude.

...the Habit Of Despair Is Worse Than Despair Itself.