The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.

There is no science without fancy and no art without fact.

Just like a man grieving because he has recently lost in his dreams some thing that he had never had in reality, or hoping that tomorrow he would dream that he found it again. That is how mathematics is created; it has its fatal flaw.

Beauty plus pity -- that is the closest we can get to a definition of art.

He was powerless because he had no precise desire, and this tortured him because he was vainly seeking something to desire. He could not even make himself stretch out his hand to switch on the light. The simple transition from intention to action seemed an unimaginable miracle.

My answer to your question'Does the writer have a social responsibility?' is NO.You owe me ten cents, sir.

Genius still means to me, in my Russian fastidiousness and pride of phrase, a unique dazzling gift. The gift of James Joyce, and not the talent of Henry James.