All My Life, My Heart Has Yearned

The Invention Of Photography Has Dealt A Mortal Blow To The Old Modes Of Expression, In Painting As Well As In Poetry, Where Automatic Writing, Which Appeared At The End Of The Nineteenth Century, Is A True Photography Of Thought. Since A Blind Instrument Now Assured Artists Of Achieving The Aim They Had Set Themselves Up To That Time, They Now Aspired, Not Without Recklessness, To Break With The Imitation Of Appearances.

Of All Those Arts In Which The Wise Excel, Nature's Chief Masterpiece Is Writing Well.

Keep Reminding Yourself That Literature Is One Of The Saddest Roads That Leads To Everything.

What’s The Good Of These Great Fragile Fits Of Enthusiasm, These Jaded Jumps Of Joys? We Know Nothing Anymore, But The Dead Stars; We Gaze At Their Faces; And We Gasp With Pleasure. Our Mouths Are Dry As The Lost Beaches, And Our Eyes Turn Aimlessly And Without Hope. Now All That Remain Are These Cafés Where We Meet To Drink These Cool Drinks, These Diluted Spirits, And The Tables Are Stickier Than The Pavements Where Our Shadows Of The Day Before Have Fallen.

The Important Thing Is That Man Is Lost In Time, In The Moment That Immediately Precedes Him - Which Only Attests, By Reflection, To The Fact That He Is Lost In The Moment That Follows