Ka Knew Very Well That Life Was

Real Museums Are Places Where Time Is Transformed Into Space.

I Need The Pain Of Loneliness To Make My Imagination Work.

I Think A Lot About The Poems I Wasn't Able To Write...i Masturbrated...solitude Is Essentially A Matter Of Pride; You Bury Yourself In Your Own Scent. The Issue Is The Same For All Real Poets. If You've Been Happy For Too Long, You Become Banal. By The Same Token, If You've Been Unhappy For A Long Time, You Lose Your Poetic Power...happiness And Poverty Can Only Coexist For The Briefest Time. Afterword Either Happiness Coarsens The Poet Or The Poem Is So True It Destroys His Happiness.

To Read A Novel Is To Wonder Constantly, Even At Moments When We Lose Ourselves Most Deeply In The Book: How Much Of This Is Fantasy, And How Much Is Real?

There's A Lot Of Pride Involved In My Refusal To Believe In God.