In My Books You Have To Concentrate,

All A Work Of Art Can Do Is Present The Surface. I Can't Know The Insides Of People. I Know Very Little About The Inside Of Myself.

Everything We Do Is Tinged With The Knowledge That This May Be The Last Time That We Will Do This, And That Makes What We're Doing Incredibly Sweet.

And Indeed Nothing Had Happened, A Momentous Nothing, Just Another Of The Great World's Shrugs Of Indifference.

The First Thought That Occurred To Me, That Night When I Heard The Chairman Of The Jury Announce My Name, Was, Just Think How Many People Hate Me At This Moment. Naturally, I Wanted To Annoy Those People Even Further By Being Arrogant.

Art Is Amoral, Whether We Accept This Or Not; It Does Not Take Sides. The Finest Fictions Are Cold At Heart.