Writer speaks a stench.

In argument similes are like songs in love; they describe much, but prove nothing.

What I write is different from what I say, what I say is different from what I think, what I think is different from what I ought to think and so it goes further into the deepest darkness.

By imposing too great a responsibility, or rather, all responsibility, on yourself, you crush yourself.

In Paradise, as always: that which causes the sin and that which recognizes it for what it is are one. The clear conscience is Evil, which is so entirely victorious that it does not any longer consider the leap from left to right necessary.

All I am is literature, and I am not able or willing to be anything else.

Writing is a sweet, wonderful reward.