A Man Who For An Entire Week

The Only Writers Who Have Any Peace Are The Ones Who Don't Write. And There Are Some Like That. They Wallow In A Sea Of Possibilities. To Express A Thought, You First Have To Limit It, And That Means Kill It. Every Word I Speak Robs Me Of A Thousand Others, And Every Line I Write Means Giving Up Another.

Good Books Tell The Truth, Even When They're About Things That Never Have Been And Never Will Be. They're Truthful In A Different Way

Psychoanalytic Doctrine Reveals The Pig In Man, A Pig Saddled With A Conscience; The Disastrous Result Is That The Pig Is Uncomfortable Beneath That Pious Rider, And The Rider Fares No Better In The Situation, Since His Endeavor Is Not Only To Tame The Pig, But Also To Render It Invisible.

Burn With That Consuming Fire Of Objectivity That Forces A Man To Renew Efforts That Are Doomed To Failure.

I'll Grant The Random Access To My Heart, Thoul't Tell Me All The Constants Of Thy Love; And So We Two Shall All Love's Lemmas Prove And In Our Bound Partition Never Part.