While a few pertinent points have to be marked, the general impression I desire to convey is of a side door crashing open in life's full flight, and a rush of roaring black time drowning with its whipping wind the cry of lone disaster.

Solitude was corrupting me.

I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.

To play safe, I prefer to accept only one type of power: the power of art over trash, the triumph of magic over the brute.

I was weeping again, drunk on the impossible past.

Genius is an African who dreams up snow.

There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child.