Frequent and violent temptations were a proof that the citadel of the soul had not fallen and that the devil raged to make it fall.

To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.

By his monstrous way of life he seemed to have put himself beyond the limits of reality. Nothing moved him or spoke to him from the real world unless he heard it in an echo of the infuriated cries within him.

Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo

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.

The light music of whiskey falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude.

My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out.