A Journalist Is Stimulated By A Deadline.

I Can Say With Pride That I Have Spent Days And Nights Not Reading Anything, And That With Unflagging Energy I Use Every Moment Toacquire Gradually An Encyclopedic Lack Of Education.

There Is A Shortage Of Clerks. Everyone Is Going Into Journalism.

Art Is Something That Is So Perfectly Clear That No One Comprehends It.

Progress, Under Whose Feet The Grass Mourns And The Forest Turns Into Paper From Which Newspaper Plants Grow, Has Subordinated The Purpose Of Life To The Means Of Subsistence And Turned Us Into The Nuts And Bolts For Our Tools.

Blushing, Palpitations, A Bad Conscience--this Is What You Get If You Haven't Sinned.