And often he who has chosen the fate of the artist because he felt himself to be different soon realizes that he can maintain neither his art nor his difference unless he admits that he is like the others. The artist forges himself to the others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community he cannot tear himself away from.

They hurt each other without wanting to, just because each represented to the others the cruel and demanding necessity of their lives.

Man wants to live, but it is useless to hope that this desire will dictate all his actions.

And then came human beings; humans wanted to cling but there was nothing to cling to.

I want to know if I can live with what I know, and only than.

The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself.

Sometimes at night I would sleep open-eyed underneath a sky dripping with stars. I was alive then.