All the literati keep at least one imaginary friend.
Man is what he reads.
The delirium and horror of the East. The dusty catastrophe of Asia. Green only on the banner of the Prophet. Nothing grows here except mustaches.
Every life has a file, if you will.
If they had wanted to punish me, they should have kept me in a communal apartment. Then I would have become a wreck.
I got caught up in the proletariat the way Marx describes it.