The Reward Of Art Is

In The Dream Of Approaching Forty I Saw Myself As About To Die And Realized That I Was No Longer Myself, But A Creature Inhabited Entirely By Parasites, As A Caterpillar Is Occupied By The Grubs Of The Ichneumon Fly. Gin, Whisky, Sloth, Fear, Guilt, Tobacco, Had Made Themselves My Inquilines; Alcohol Sloshed About Within, While Tendrils Of Melon And Vine Grew Out Of Ears And Nostrils; My Mind Was A Worn Gramophone Record, My True Self Was Such A Ruin As To Seem Non-existent, And All This Had Happened In The Last Three Years.

No City Should Be Too Large For A Man To Walk Out Of In A Morning.

We Love But Once, For Once Only Are We Perfectly Equipped For Loving.

The True Work Of Art Is The One Which The Seventh Wave Of Genius Throws Up The Beach Where The Undertow Of Time Cannot Drag It Back.

Only By Avoiding The Beginning Of Things Can We Escape Their End.