He Who Seeks Does Not Find, But

Love Is, That You Are The Knife Which I Plunge Into Myself.

Writers Speak Stench.

In A Certain Sense You Deny The Existence Of This World. You Explain Life As A State Of Rest, A State Of Rest In Motion.

When One Has Once Accepted And Absorbed Evil, It No Longer Demands To Be Believed.

I Need Solitude For My Writing; Not 'like A Hermit' - That Wouldn't Be Enough - But Like A Dead Man.