I act as a sponge. I soak it up and squeeze it out in ink every two weeks.
She died with a knife in her hand in her kitchen, where she had cooked for fifty years, and the death was solemnly listed in the newspaper as that of an artist.
Genius is immediate, but talent takes time.
Genius is a talent only for living, those who possess it have little gift for dying.
She had storms all her life, but she died peacefully.
Proust has been dead since 1922, yet the annual appearance of his posthumous works has left him, to the reader, alive. Now there is nothing left to publish. Five years after his interment, Proust seems dead for the first time.