Love Is Desire For Knowledge.

Artists Are The Monks Of The Bourgeois State.

Traveling Is A Brutality. It Forces You To Trust Strangers And To Lose Sight Of All That Familiar Comfort Of Home And Friends

Death Is Repose, But The Thought Of Death Disturbs All Repose.

If It Is True That One Gets Used To Suffering, How Is It That As The Years Go One Always Suffers More? No, They Are Not Mad, Those People Who Amuse Themselves, Enjoy Life, Travel, Make Love, Fight They Are Not Mad. We Should Like To Do The Same Ourselves.

You Wait For Nothing If Not For The Word That Will Burst From The Deep Like A Fruit Among Branches.