I Don't Want To Disappear.

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.

I'm Homosexual. How And Why Are Idle Questions. It's A Little Like Wanting To Know Why My Eyes Are Green.

The Fame Of Heroes Owes Little To The Extent Of Their Conquests And All To The Success Of The Tributes Paid To Them.

Crimes Of Which A People Is Ashamed Constitute Its Real History. The Same Is True Of Man.

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.