I Enjoyed Your Article, But I Preferred

I Write What I Write.

Every Man Is Obsessed By The Memories Of His Own Youth.

I Returned To The Courtyard And Saw That The Sun Had Grown Weaker. Beautiful And Clear As It Had Been, The Morning (as The Day Approached The Completion Of Its First Half) Was Becoming Damp And Misty. Heavy Clouds Moved From The North And Were Invading The Top Of The Mountain, Covering It With A Light Brume. It Seemed To Be Fog, And Perhaps Fog Was Also Rising From The Ground, But At That Altitude It Was Difficult To Distinguish The Mists That Rose From Below And Those That Come Down From Above. It Was Becoming Hard To Discern The Bulk Of The More Distant Buildings.

I Feel That I Am A Scholar Who Only With The Left Hand Writes Novels.

We Have A Limit, A Very Discouraging, Humiliating Limit: Death.