The Pleasures Of Writing Correspond

My God Died Young. Theolatry I Found Degrading, And Its Premises, Unsound. No Free Man Needs God; But Was I Free?

I Think Like A Genius, I Write Like A Distinguished Author, And I Speak Like A Child.

Who Can Say What Heartbreaks Are Caused In A Dog By Our Discontinuing A Romp?

A Man Who Has Decided Upon Self-destruction Is Far Removed From Mundane Affairs, And To Sit Down And Write His Will Would Be, At That Moment, An Act Just As Absurd As Winding Up One’s Watch, Since Together With The Man, The Whole World Is Destroyed; The Last Letter Is Instantly Reduced To Dust And, With It, All The Postmen; And Like Smoke, Vanishes The Estate Bequeathed To A Nonexistent Progeny.

Literature And Butterflies Are The Two Sweetest Passions Known To Man.