She Was The Amoureuse Of

Be Regular And Orderly In Your Life, So That You May Be Violent And Original In Your Work.

She Would Have Liked Not To Be Alive, Or To Be Always Asleep.

Everything, Even Herself, Was Now Unbearable To Her. She Wished That, Taking Wing Like A Bird, She Could Fly Somewhere, Far Away To Regions Of Purity, And There Grow Young Again.

In My View, The Novelist Has No Right To Express His Opinions On The Things Of This World. In Creating, He Must Imitate God: Do His Job And Then Shut Up.

A Thing Derided Is A Thing Dead; A Laughing Man Is Stronger Than A Suffering Man.