An artist is a cut above the critic, for the artist is writing something which will move the critic. The critic is writing something which will move everybody but the artist
Thetorment of human frustration, whatever its immediate cause,is the knowledge that the self is in prison, its vital force and ‘mangledmind’ leaking away in lonely, wasteful self-conflict.
Whateverfailures I have known, whatever errors I have committed, whatever follies Ihave witnessed in private and public life have been the consequence of actionwithout thought.
