And I, As I Lived, In An

We Practically Always Excuse Things When We Understand Them

The History Of A Man's Soul, Even The Pettiest Soul, Is Hardly Less Interesting And Useful Than The History Of A Whole People; Especially When The Former Is The Result Of The Observations Of A Mature Mind Upon Itself, And Has Been Written Without Any Egotistical Desire Of Arousing Sympathy Or Astonishment. Rousseau's Confessions Has Precisely This Defect – He Read It To His Friends.

And I, As I Lived, In An Alien Landwill Die A Slave And An Orphan.

For What Did The Creator Prepare Me,why Did He So Terribly Contradictthe Hopes Of My Youth?

What Is This Eternity To Me Without You? What Is The Infinity Of My Domains? Empty Ringing Words, A Spacious Temple - Without A Divinity!