Whenever I start thinking of my love for a person, I am in the habit of immediately drawing radii from my love - from my heart, from the tender nucleus of a personal matter- to monstrously remote points of the universe. Something impels me to measure the consciousness of my love against such unimaginable and incalculable things as the behaviour of nebulae (whose very remoteness seems a form of insanity), the dreadful pitfalls of eternity, the unknowledgeable beyond the unknown, the helplessness, the cold, the sickening involutions and interpenetrations of space and time.

For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.

Curiously enough, one cannot read a book; one can only reread it. A good reader, a major reader, and active and creative reader is a rereader.

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

Remembrance, like Rembrandt, is dark but festive. Remembered ones dress up for the occasion and sit still. Memory is a photo-studio de luxe on an infinite Fifth Power Avenue.

Some might think that the creativity, imagination, and flights of fancy that give my life meaning are insanity.

As to the rest, I am no more guilty of imitating 'real life' than'real life' is responsible for plagiarizing me.