Every Decision You Make Is A Mistake.

We Are A Most Solitary People, And We Live, Repelled By One Another, In The Gray, Outcast Cities Of Cain.

Writing Is Conscience, Scruple, And The Farming Of Our Ancestors.

The Machine Has Had A Pernicious Effect Upon Virtue, Pity, And Love, And Young Men Used To Machines Which Induce Inertia, And Fear, Are Near Impotent.

Recognize The Cunning Man Not By The Corpses He Pays Homage To But By The Living Writers He Conspires Against With The Most Shameful Weapon, Silence, Or The Briefest Review.

The Earnings Of A Poet Could Be Reckoned By A Metaphysician Rather Than A Bookkeeper.