Secrets. Need to disguise. The novel was born of this.

His life rushes onward in such torrential rhythm that...only angels and devils can catch the tempo of it.

If you can't create, you destroy.

If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation.

To change skins, evolve into new cycles, I feel one has to learn to discard

The artist is the only one who knows that the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements.

He does not need opium. He has the gift of reverie.