There Were Three Of Us; Witkiewicz, Bruno

Beauty Beheld In Solitude Is Even More Lethal.

If He [the Artist] Were To Take Up The Pen It Would Be...to Better Express His Individuality And Explain It To Others; Or Else To Put His Internal Affairs In Order...to Deepen And Sharpen His Relationship With His Fellow Men Because Other Souls Exert An Immense And Creative Influence On Our Soul; Or To Try To Fight For A World As He Would Like It To Be, For A World That Is Indispensable To His Life.

Great! I've Written Something Stupid, But I Haven't Signed A Contract With Anyone To Produce Solely Wise And Perfect Works. I Gave Vent To My Stupidity...and Here I Am, Reborn.

Man Is Profoundly Dependent On The Reflection Of Himself In Another Man's Soul, Be It Even The Soul Of An Idiot.

We Say 'forest' But This Word Is Made Of The Unknown, The Unfamiliar, The Unencompassed. The Earth. Clods Of Dirt. Pebbles. On A Clear Day You Rest Among Ordinary, Everyday Things That Have Been Familiar To You Since Childhood, Grass, Bushes, A Dog (or A Cat), A Chair, But That Changes When You Realize That Every Object Is An Enormous Army, An Inexhaustible Swarm.