Who Speaks Is Not Who

The Incapacity To Name Is A Good Symptom Of Disturbance.

Those Who Fail To Reread Are Obliged To Read The Same Story Everywhere.

I Encounter Millions Of Bodies In My Life; Of These Millions, I May Desire Some Hundreds; But Of These Hundreds, I Love Only One.

Literature Is Without Proofs. By Which It Must Be Understood That It Cannot Prove, Not Only What It Says, But Even That It Is Worth The Trouble Of Saying It.

Physically, The Ventoux Is Dreadful. Bald, It's The Spirit Of Dry: Its Climate (it Is Much More An Essence Of Climate Than A Geographic Place) Makes It A Damned Terrain, A Testing Place For Heroes, Something Like A Higher Hell.