I Saw The Sunset Forty-four Times!

On A Day Of Burial There Is No Perspective--for Space Itself Is Annihilated. Your Dead Friend Is Still A Fragmentary Being. The Day You Bury Him Is A Day Of Chores And Crowds, Of Hands False Or True To Be Shaken, Of The Immediate Cares Of Mourning. The Dead Friend Will Not Really Die Until Tomorrow, When Silence Is Round You Again. Then He Will Show Himself Complete, As He Was--to Tear Himself Away, As He Was, From The Substantial You. Only Then Will You Cry Out Because Of Him Who Is Leaving And Whom You Cannot Detain.

No Individual Is Isolated. He Who Is Sad, Saddens Others.

When You Want To Build A Ship, Then Do Not Drum The Men Together In Order To Procure Wood, To Give Instructions Or To Distribute The Work, But Teach Them Longing For The Wide Endless Sea.

Perfection Is Attained, Not When No More Can Be Added, But When No More Can Be Removed.

Si Quelqu'un Veut Un Mouton, C'est La Preuve Qu'il En Existe Un. (if Somebody Wants A Sheep, That Is A Proof That One Exists.)