Life Is Like A Cucumber.

Science Is The Poetry Of The Intellect And Poetry The Science Of The Heart's Affections.

No History Much? Perhaps. Only This Ominous Dark Beauty Flowering Under Veils, Trapped In The Spectrum Of A Dying Style: A Village Like An Instinct Left To Rust, Composed Around The Echo Of A Pistol-shot.

I Don’t Believe One Reads To Escape Reality. A Person Reads To Confirm A Reality He Knows Is There, But Which He Has Not Experienced.

Perhaps Our Only Sickness Is To Desire A Truth Which We Cannot Bear Rather Than To Rest Content With The Fictions We Manufacture Out Of Each Other.

Old Age Is An Insult. It's Like Being Smacked.