Love Is, Above All, The Gift Of

Each Of Us Has A Day .. When He Has To Accept, Finally, The Fact That He Is A Man.

Talent Is Like A Faucet, While It Is Open, One Must Write.

Tragedy Is Restful: And The Reason Is That Hope, That Foul, Deceitful Thing, Has No Part In It.

The True Masters Of The Art Of Living Are Already Happy.

Beauty, Real Beauty, Is Something Very Grave. If There Is A God, He Must Be Partly That.