I Don't Know. Everything. Living. Smoking.

The Form [of Literature] Matters Little To Me, Classical Or Not.

Smooth And Smiling Faces Everywhere, But Ruin In Their Eyes.

In The Nineteenth Century One Had To Give All Sorts Of Guarantees And Lead An Exemplary Life In Order To Cleanse Oneself In The Eyes Of The Bourgeois Of The Sin Of Writing, For Literature Is, In Essence, Heresy. The Situation Has Not Changed Except That It Is Now The Communists, That Is, The Qualified Representatives Of The Proletariat, Who As A Matter Of Principle Regard The Writer As Suspect.

I Am Responsible For Everything... Except My Very Responsibility.

You Must Be Like Me; You Must Suffer In Rhythm.