I Have All The Defects Of Other

As Art Sinks Into Paralysis, Artists Multiply. This Anomaly Ceases To Be One If We Realize That Art, On Its Way To Exhaustion, Has Become Both Impossible And Easy.

Torment, For Some Men, Is A Need, An Appetite, And An Accomplishment.

Man Is A Robot With Defects.

No Position Is So False As Having Understood And Still Remaining Alive.

All People See Fires, Storms, Explosions, Or Landscapes; But How Many Feel The Flames, The Lightnings, The Whirlwinds, Or The Harmony? How Many Have An Inner Beauty That Tinges Their Melancholy?