O your life, your lonely lifeWhat have you ever done with it,And done with the great gift of consciousness?What will you ever do before Death's knifeProvides the answer ultimate and appropriate?As I for my part felt in my heart as one who falls,Falls in a parachute, falls endlessly, and feels the vastDraft of the abyss sucking him down and down,An endlessly helplessly falling and appalled clown:This is the way the night passes by, thisIs the overnight endless trip to the famous unfathomable abyss.

Literary Party: A traffic jam of the lost waiting for the ferry across the Styx.

I got married the second time in the way that, when a murder is committed, crackpots turn up at the police station to confess the crime.

All literature is an effort at the formal character of the epigram.

Is it not clear that a reviewer's psyche, like an iceberg, is seven-eighths beneath the surface?

What does long life avail? The best seats at the funerals of friends.

I am of Russian-Jewish distraction.