Mother Died Today. Or Maybe Yesterday; I

To Stay Or To Go, It Amounted To The Same Thing.

No Matter How The Sun Shone, The Sea Held Forth No More Promises.

In A World That Has Ceased To Believe In Sin, The Artist Is Responsible For The Preaching.

What, In Fact, Is A Novel But A Universe In Which Action Is Endowed With Form, Where Final Words Are Pronounced, Where People Possess One Another Completely, And Where Life Assumes The Aspect Of Destiny?

Heroism Is Accessible. Happiness Is More Difficult.