Each Thought Becomes An Anxiety In My

The Itch Is A Mean, Unconfessable, Ridiculous Malady; One Can Pity Someone Who Is Suffering ; Someone Who Wants To Scratch Himself Makes One Laugh.

The Work Of Art Is The Exaggeration Of An Idea.

Sadness Is A State Of Sin.

We Live Counterfeit Lives In Order To Resemble The Idea We First Had Of Ourselves.

Generally Among Intelligent People Are Found Nothing But Paralytics And Among Men Of Action Nothing But Fools.