Those rituals of getting ready to write produce a kind of trance state.
It is often pleasant to stone a martyr, no matter how much we may admire him.
The horror of our history has purged me of opinions.
A curious thing about written literature: It is about four thousand years old, but we have no way of knowing whether four thousand years constitutes senility or the maiden blush of youth.
Choosing is existence. To the extent that you don't choose, you don't exist.
Is man a savage at heart, skinned o'er with fragile Manners? Or is savagery but a faint taint in the natural man's gentility, which erupts now and again like pimples on an angel's arse?