Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.
I confess, I do not believe in time.
I mean, I have the feeling that something in my mind is poisoning everything else.
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.
I am not, and never was, and never could have been, a brutal scoundrel.
The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.