It Is Only For Those

For Every Second Of Time Was The Strait Gate Through Which The Messiah Might Enter.

You Follow The Same Paths Of Thought As Before. Only, They Appear Strewn With Roses.

This Is How One Pictures The Angel Of History. His Face Is Turned Toward The Past. Where We Perceived A Chain Of Events, He Sees One Single Catastrophe Which Keeps Piling Wreckage And Hurls It In Front Of His Feet. The Angel Would Like To Stay, Awaken The Dead, And Make Whole What Has Been Smashed. But A Storm Is Blowing From Paradise; It Has Got Caught In His Wings With Such Violence That The Angel Can No Longer Close Them. This Storm Irresistably Propels Him Into The Future To Which His Back Is Turned, While The Pile Of Debris Before Him Grows Skyward. The Storm Is What We Call Progress.

Writers Are Really People Who Write Books Not Because They Are Poor, But Because They Are Dissatisfied With The Books Which They Could Buy But Do Not Like.

As Long As There Is Still One Beggar Around, There Will Still Be Myth.