Worse than madness. Sanity.

As soon as Oliver Twist is serialized, people who would never dream of reading [Charles] Dickens, if they hadn't seen him on their box, buy the paperback.

Kill the pig. Cut her throat. Spill her blood.

The mask was a thing on it's own, behind which Jack hid, liberated from shame and self-conciousness.

As far as the novel is concerned in my own country, I think it's in a pretty healthy state.

I am here; and here is nowhere in particular.

Art is partly communication, but only partly. The rest is discovery.