Death Is In Truth An Illness From

It Comes So Soon, The Moment When There Is Nothing Left To Wait For.

When I Am Not Too Sad To Listen, Music Is My Consolation.

Death Is In Truth An Illness From Which We Recover

An Hour Is Not Merely An Hour, It Is A Vase Full Of Scents And Sounds And Projects And Climates.

Let But A Single Flash Of Reality -- The Glimpse Of A Woman From Afar Or From Behind -- Enable Us To Project The Image Of Beauty Before Our Eyes, And We Imagine That We Have Recognised It, Our Hearts Beat, And We Will Always Remain Half-persuaded That It Was She, Provided That The Woman Has Vanished: It Is Only If We Manage To Overtake Her That We Realise Our Mistake.