It's only those who do nothing that make no mistakes, I suppose.
A man's real life is that accorded to him in the thoughts of other men by reason of respect or natural love.
... it was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.
Facing it, always facing it, that's the way to get through. Face it.
His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to remain -- why he did not instantly disappear.
Criticism, that fine flower of personal expression in the garden of letters.