You cried for night - it falls. Now cry in darkness.

Humbly to ask a favour of people who are on the point of knocking your brains out sometimes produces good results.

The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.

What are we doing here, that is the question.

To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.

I gave up before birth.