The personality of the artist, at first a cry or a cadence or a mood and then a fluid, and lambent narrative, finally refines itself out of existence, impersonalises itself, so to speak. The aesthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of aesthetic like that of material creation is accomplished. 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.

Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.

Nations have their ego, just like individuals.

To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher.

That ideal reader suffering from an ideal insomnia.

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

I don't want to die. Damn death. Long live life.