Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.

I had seen faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. And my father's face, on his death-bolster, had seemed to hint at some form of aesthetics relevant to man. But the faces of the living, all grimace and flush, can they be described as objects?

Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.

Yes, there is no denying it, any longer, it is not you who are dead, but all the others. So you get up and go to your mother, who thinks she is alive. That's my impression. But now I shall have to get myself out of this ditch. How joyfully I would vanish here, sinking deeper and deeper under the rains.

There are two moments worthwhile in writing, the one when you start and the other when you throw it in the waste-paper basket.

The essential is to go on squirming forever at the end of the line, as long as there are waters and banks and ravening in heaven asporting God to plague his creature, per pro his chosen shits.

An imaginative adventure does not enjoy the same corsets as reportage.