It's very selfish when I write. I'm not aware, ever, of writing for another person; I'm not even really aware of writing for myself.
No one more cynical than an idealist.
I haven't changed. Something's happened to me, that's all.
Pirates have always fascinated me.
What is any of this to us? Time is endless and ours. Love and Death are only the games we play in it.
The humble were the elect of God. Did not the priests teach so, in their gemmed, kingly robes, from their towering pulpits?