There is within every human being a deep well of thinking over which a heavy iron lid is kept clamped.

The thing of course, is to make yourself alive. Most people remain all of their lives in a stupor.

I feel that I am writing out of a full life. I am a rich man, rich in men known, in adventures had. I am rich with living.

Friends you have, people you love, die and are born again.

Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.

It is no use. I find it impossible to work with security staring me in the face.

You won’t arrive. It is an endless search.