Slept, Awoke, Slept, Awoke, Miserable Life.

A Book Should Serve As An Axe To The Ice Inside Us.

How Can One Take Delight In The World Unless One Flees To It For Refuge?

In A Certain Sense The Good Is Comfortless.

Writing Is A Deeper Sleep Than Death. Just As One Wouldn't Pull A Corpse From Its Grave, I Can't Be Dragged From My Desk At Night.

Every Dog Has Like Me The Impulse To Question, And I Have Like Every Dog The Impulse Not To Answer.