Beauty Has No Other Origin Than The

It's A True Image, Born Of A False Spectacle.

Solitude, As I Understand It, Does Not Signify An Unhappy State, But Rather Secret Royalty, Profound Incommunicability Yet A More Or Less Obscure Knowledge Of An Invulnerable Singularity.

The Time For Reasoning Is Past; Now's The Time To Get Steamed Up And Fight Like Mad.

They Remain Dead, The People I Try To Resuscitate By Straining To Hear What They Say. But The Illusion Is Not Pointless, Or Not Quite, Even If The Reader Knows All This Better Than I Do. One Thing A Book Tries To Do, Beneath The Disguise Of Words And Causes And Clothes And Grief, Is Show The Skeleton And The Skeleton Dust To Come. The Author Too, Like Those Of Whom He Speaks, Is Dead.

I Could Not Take Lightly The Idea That People Made Love Without Me.