I was a victim of a series of accidents, as are we all.
Time is liquid. One moment is no more important than any other and all moments quickly run away.
He had supposed for years that he had no secrets from himself. Here was proof that he had a great big secret somewhere inside, and he could not imagine what it was.
We are here for no purpose, unless we can invent one.
Words may deeply wound us, but we must run that risk to be free.
Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?