“Why I hoarded up this last wretched little rag of the robe of hope that was rent and given to the winds, how do I know! Why did you, who read this, commit that not dissimilar inconsistency of your own, last year, last month, last week?”
“No artist is pleased… There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction; a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.”