Every Book Is The Wreck Of A

Every Artist Is An Unhappy Lover.

People From A Planet Without Flowers Would Think We Must Be Mad With Joy The Whole Time To Have Such Things About Us.

The Human Soul Is Not Framed For Continued Proximity, And The Result Of This Enforced Neighbourhood Is Often An Appalling Loneliness For Which The Rules Of The Game Forbid Assuagement.

Man's Creative Struggle, His Search For Wisdom And Truth, Is A Love Story.

As We Live Our Precarious Lives On The Brink Of The Void, Constantly Coming Closer To A State Of Nonbeing, We Are All Too Often Aware Of Our Fragitlity.