To An Old Man Any Place That's

All Human Beings Have Gray Little Souls-and They All Want To Rouge Them Up.

An Artist Is A Man Who Digests His Own Subjective Impressions And Knows How To Find A General Objective Meaning In Them, And How To Express Them In A Convincing Form.

In The Carriages Of The Past, You Can't Go Anywhere.

We Kill Everybody, My Dear. Some With Bullets, Some With Words, And Everybody With Our Deeds. We Drive People Into Their Graves, And Neither See It Nor Feel It.

There's A Little Book I'm Thinking Of Writing - "swan Song" Is What I Shall Call It. The Song Of The Dying. And My Book Will Be Incense Burnt At The Deathbed Of This Society, Damned With The Damnation Of Its Own Impotence.