After All, Every Murderer When He Kills

If We Understood The Enigmas Of Life There Would Be No Need For Art.

You Know Very Well That I No Longer Think. I Am Far Too Intelligent For That.

I Cling Like A Miser To The Freedom That Disappears As Soon As There Is An Excess Of Things.

Once Crime Was As Solitary As A Cry Of Protest; Now It Is As Universal As Science. Yesterday It Was Put On Trial; Today It Determines The Law.

Life Continues, And Some Mornings, Weary Of The Noise, Discouraged By The Prospect Of The Interminable Work To Keep After, Sickened Also By The Madness Of The World That Leaps At You From The Newspaper, Finally Convinced That I Will Not Be Equal To It And That I Will Disappoint Everyone - All I Want To Do Is Sit Down And Wait For Evening. This Is What I Feel Like, And Sometimes I Yield To It.