A Writer Survives In Spite

Modern Man-whether In The Womb Of The Masses, Or With His Workmates, Or With His Family, Or Alone-can Never For One Moment Forget That He Is Living In A World In Which He Is A Means And Whose End Is Not His Business.

...my Boredom Might Be Described As A Malady Affecting External Objects And Consisting Of A Withering Process; An Almost Instantaneous Loss Of Vitality--just As Though One Saw A Flower Change In A Few Seconds From A Bud To Decay And Dust.

The Less One Notices Happiness, The Greater It Is.

It Is What We Are Forced To Do That Forms Our Character, Not What We Do Of Our Own Free Will.

The Ratio Of Literacy To Illiteracy Is Constant, But Nowadays The Illiterates Can Read And Write.