Each Thing Implies The Universe.

Art Is Endless Like A River Flowing, Passing, Yet Remaining.

Happy Are The Beloved And The Lovers And Those Who Can Live Without Love.

I Have Always Imagined That Paradise Will Be A Kind Of Library.

I Do Not Write For A Select Minority, Which Means Nothing To Me, Nor For That Adulated Platonic Entity Known As ‘the Masses’. Both Abstractions, So Dear To The Demagogue, I Disbelieve In. I Write For Myself And For My Friends, And I Write To Ease The Passing Of Time.

The Truth Is That We Live Out Our Lives Putting Off All That Can Be Put Off; Perhaps We All Know Deep Down That We Are Immortal And That Sooner Or Later All Men Will Do And Know All Things.