“Art is a marriage of the conscious and the unconscious.”
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After the writer's death, reading his journal is like receiving a long letter.
Everything one does in life, even love, occurs in an express train racing toward death. To smoke opium is to get out of the train while it is still moving. It is to concern oneself with something other than life or death.
The actual tragedies of life bear no relation to one's preconceived ideas. In the event, one is always bewildered by their simplicity, their grandeur of design, and by that element of the bizarre which seems inherent in them.
Here I am trying to live, or rather, I am trying to teach the death within me how to live.
