The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.

A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.

I care not if I live but a day and a night, so long as my deeds live after me.

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

Ineluctable modality of the visible; at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read.

He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hear her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.

One of the things I could never get accustomed to in my youth was the difference I found between life and literature.