Solitude Was Corrupting Me.

How Small The Cosmos (a Kangaroo's Pouch Would Hold It), How Paltry And Puny In Comparison To Human Consciousness, To A Single Individual Recollection, And Its Expression In Words!

His Wings Were Failing, But He Refused To Fall Without A Struggle.

For Better Or Worse, It Is The Commentator Who Has The Last Word.

She Was Like Marat Only With Nobody To Kill Her.

Dostoevky's Lack Of Taste, His Monotonous Dealings With Persons Suffering With Pre-freudian Complexes, The Way He Has Of Wallowing In The Tragic Misadventures Of Human Dignity - All This Is Difficult To Admire.