After All, It Is Hard To Master

As A Form Of Moral Insurance, At Least, Literature Is Much More Dependable Than A System Of Beliefs Or A Philosophical Doctrine. Since There Are No Laws That Can Protect Us From Ourselves, No Criminal Code Is Capable Of Preventing A True Crime Against Literature; Though We Can Condemn The Material Suppression Of Literature - The Persecution Of Writers, Acts Of Censorship, The Burning Of Books - We Are Powerless When It Comes To Its Worst Violation: That Of Not Reading The Books. For That Crime, A Person Pays With His Whole Life; If The Offender Is A Nation, It Pays With Its History.

If I Can Get Somewhere, I'm All Right. If Not, I'm Miserable.

...boredom Speaks The Language Of Time, And It Is To Teach You The Most Valuable Lesson In Your Life--...the Lesson Of Your Utter Insignificance. It Is Valuable To You, As Well As To Those You Are To Rub Shoulders With. 'you Are Finite,' Time Tells You In A Voice Of Boredom, 'and Whatever You Do Is, From My Point Of View, Futile.' As Music To Your Ears, This, Of Course, May Not Count; Yet The Sense Of Futility, Of Limited Significance Even Of Your Best, Most Ardent Actions Is Better Than The Illusion Of Their Consequence And The Attendant Self-satisfaction.

If One's Fated To Be Born In Caesar's Empire, Let Him Live Aloof, Provincial, By The Seashore.

Out Of Dostoevsky: Kafka. Out Of Tolstoy: Margaret Mitchell. (in Conversation, Explaining His Dislike For Tolstoy)