The richest love is that which submits to the arbitration of time.
You see, nothing matters except pleasure - which is the opposite of happiness, its tragic part, I expect.
The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.
A critic is a lug-worm in the liver of literature.
But I love to feel events overlapping each other, crawling over one another like wet crabs in a basket
Art like life is an open secret.