The Life Of A Writer Is Tragic:

Curiosity Ran Unchecked Through Him, Like The Wind Outside Through The Deserted Streets, Along The Canal, Around The Little Wooden Houses, Everywhere, As Far As The Mountain.

One Knows Less About One's Own Destiny Than About Anything Else On Earth.

It's A Funny Life. Either You Don't Make A Red Cent And You Have All The Time In The World, Or Else You Get Double The Money And You Don't Have A Moment To Spend A Penny Of It.

Ideas Often Last But A Day; Feelings, Dreams Almost Forever.

Every Life Is A Tragedy, But Far More The Writer's Life, Because The More He Has To See, The More Deeply He Understands And Feels About Life, The Less Time He Has To Put It Down.