All Of Living Is Nothing But A

I Had To Spend My Entire Childhood In The Altensam Dungeon Like An Inmate Doing Time For No Comprehensible Reason, For A Crime He Can't Remember Committing, A Judicial Error Probably.

The Art We Need Is The Art Of Bearing The Unbearable.

Only When I Am By Seawater Can I Truly Breathe, To Say Nothing Of My Ability To Think.

The Only Friends I Have Are The Dead Who Have Bequeathed Their Writings To Me — I Have No Others.

The Thinking Man Always Finds Himself In A Gigantic Orphanage In Which People Are Continually Proving To Him That He Has No Parents.