Art at its greatest is fantastically deceitful and complex.
My principal failing as a writer is the lack of spontaneity; the nuisance of parallel thoughts, second thoughts, third thoughts; inability to express myself properly in any language unless I compose every damned sentence in my bath, in my mind, at my desk.
All the information I have about myself is from forged documents.
Look at this tangle of thorns.
The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense.
No difference exists between American and European manners. A proletarian from Chicago can be just as Philistine as an English duke.