A Poor Man With Nothing In His

I Have Done No Passably Decent Job In This World Which Did Not At First Seem To Me Useless - Absurdly Useless, Useless To The Point Of Nausea. My Secret Demon Is Called:;: What's The Use?

When You Think Of The Huge Uninterrupted Success Of A Book Like Don Quixote, You're Bound To Realize That If Humankind Have Not Yet Finished Being Revenged, By Sheer Laughter, For Being Let Down In Their Greatest Hope, It Is Because That Hope Was Cherished So Long And Lay So Deep!

Hell, Madame, Is To Love No Longer.

Have You Never Been Moved By Poor Men's Fidelity, The Image Of You They Form In Their Simple Minds? Why Should You Always Talk Of Their Envy, Without Understanding That What They Ask Of You Is Not So Much Your Worldly Goods, As Something Very Hard To Define, Which They Themselves Can Put No Name To; Yet At Times It Consoles Their Loneliness; A Dream Of Splendor, Of Magnificence, A Tawdry Dream, A Poor Man's Dream -and Yet God Blesses It!

Hell Is Not To Love Anymore.