It Is Not Love That Is Blind,

I Am Quite Alone. I Am Neither Happy Nor Unhappy; I Lie Suspended Like A Hair Or A Feather In The Cloudy Mixtures Of Memory.

The Whole Mediterranean, The Sculpture, The Palm, The Gold Beads, The Bearded Heroes, The Wine, The Ideas, The Ships, The Moonlight, The Winged Gorgons, The Bronze Men, The Philosophers - All Of It Seems To Rise In The Sour, Pungent Taste Of These Black Olives Between The Teeth. A Taste Older Than Meat, Older Than Wine. A Taste As Old As Cold Water.

A City Becomes A World When One Loves One Of Its Inhabitants.

You See, Nothing Matters Except Pleasure - Which Is The Opposite Of Happiness, Its Tragic Part, I Expect.

An Idea Is Like A Rare Bird Which Cannot Be Seen. What One Sees Is The Trembling Of The Branch It Has Just Left.