There Is No Gift More Great Than

The Realization That Life Is Absurdand Cannot Be An End, But Only Abeginning. This Is A Truth Nearly Allgreat Minds Have Taken As Their Starting Point.

Oh, Do The Overlords Of Life And Death Always Provide Some Obstacle To Prevent What All Of Us Have Known In Youth Was Possible From Ever Coming True?

If We Assiduously Cultivate Our Powers Of Exaggeration, Perhaps We, Too, Shall Obtain The Paradise Of Liars. And There Raphael Shall Paint For Us Scores And Scores Of His Manifestly Impossible Pictures... And Shakespeare Will Lie To Us Of Fabulous Islands Far Past 'the Still-vex'd Bermoothes,' And Bring Us Fresh Tales From The Coast Of Bohemia. For No One Will Speak The Truth There, And We Shall All Be Perfectly Happy.

I Do That Which I Do In Every Place. Here Also, At The Gateway Of That Garden Into Which Time Has Not Entered, I Fight With Time My Ever-losing Battle, Because To Do That Diverts Me.

A Book , Once It Is Printed And Published, Becomes Individual. It Is By Its Publication As Decisively Severed From Its Author As In Parturition A Child Is Cut Off From Its Parent. The Book "means" Thereafter, Perforce, Both Grammatically And Actually, Whatever Meaning This Or That Reader Gets Out Of It.