A Great Truth Is A Truth Whose

I Don't Think Anyone Is Thinking Long-term Now.

One Has The Idea Of A Stupid Man As Perfectly Healthy And Ordinary, And Of Illness As Making One Refined And Clever And Unusual.

Forbearance In The Face Of Fate, Beauty Constant Under Torture, Are Not Merely Passive. They Are A Positive Achievement, An Explicit Triumph.

I Never Can Understand How Anyone Can Not Smoke It Deprives A Man Of The Best Part Of Life. With A Good Cigar In His Mouth A Man Is Perfectly Safe, Nothing Can Touch Him, Literally.

There Were Profound Reasons For His Attachment To The Sea: He Loved It Because As A Hardworking Artist He Needed Rest, Needed To Escape From The Demanding Complexity Of Phenomena And Lie Hidden On The Bosom Of The Simple And Tremendous; Because Of A Forbidden Longing Deep Within Him That Ran Quite Contrary To His Life's Task And Was For That Very Reason Seductive, A Longing For The Unarticulated And Immeasurable, For Eternity, For Nothingness. To Rest In The Arms Of Perfection Is The Desire Of Any Man Intent Upon Creating Excellence; And Is Not Nothingness A Form Of Perfection?