Good things happen to those who hustle.

The leaf fall of his words, the stained glass hues of his moods, the rust in his voice, the smoke in his mouth, his breath on my vision like human breath blinding a mirror.

The creative personality never remains fixed on the first world it discovers. It never resigns itself to anything.

Our age has need of violence," he writes. And he is violence.

The writer is the duelist who never fights at the stated hour, who gathers up an insult, like another curious object, a collector's item, spreads it out on his desk later, and then engages in a duel with it verbally. Some people call it weakness. I call it postponement. What is weakness in the man becomes a quality in the writer. For he preserves, collects what will explode later in his work. That is why the writer is the loneliest man in the world; because he lives, fights, dies, is reborn always alone; all his roles are played behind a curtain. In life he is an incongruous figure.

Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.

... only love begets love.