The house of fiction has in short not one window, but a million, ... but they are, singly, as nothing without the posted presence of the watcher.
My sole wish is to frustrate as utterly as possible the post-mortem exploiter.
He is the same old sausage, fizzing and sputtering in his own grease.
One is oneself a fine consequence.
You are good for nothing unless you are clever.
To take what there is in life and use it, without waiting forever in vain for the preconceived, to dig deep into the actual and get something out of that; this, doubtless, is the right way to live.