Life Is A Picnic On A Precipice.

Few Can Remember Clearly When Innocence Came To A Sudden End, The Moment At Which We Ask For The First Time: Am I Loved?

One Cannot Review A Bad Book Without Showing Off.

And None Will Hear The Postman’s Knock Without A Quickening Of The Heart. For Who Can Bear To Feel Himself Forgotten?

As A Rule, It Was The Pleasure-haters Who Became Unjust.

Proper Names Are Poetry In The Raw. Like All Poetry They Are Untranslatable.