A Man Can Do What He Wants,

Hope Is The Confusion Of The Desire For A Thing With Its Probability.

Most Men Are So Thoroughly Subjective That Nothing Really Interests Them But Themselves.

Every Time A Man Is Begotten And Born, The Clock Of Human Life Is Wound Up Anew To Repeat Once More Its Same Old Tune That Has Already Been Played Innumerable Times, Movement By Movement And Measure By Measure, With Insignificant Variations.

No One Writes Anything Worth Writing, Unless He Writes Entirely For The Sake Of His Subject.

Human Life Must Be Some Form Of Mistake.