Monastic Incarceration Is Castration.

All That Was Neither A City, Nor A Church, Nor A River, Nor Color, Nor Light, Nor Shadow: It Was Reverie. For A Long Time, I Remained Motionless, Letting Myself Be Penetrated Gently By This Unspeakable Ensemble, By The Serenity Of The Sky And The Melancholy Of The Moment. I Do Not Know What Was Going On In My Mind, And I Could Not Express It; It Was One Of Those Ineffable Moments When One Feels Something In Himself Which Is Going To Sleep And Something Which Is Awakening.

Taste Is The Common Sense Of Genius.

Success Is A Very Hideous Thing. Its False Resemblance To Merit Deceives Men.

Melancholy Is The Happiness Of Being Sad.

The Wind Of Revolutions Is Not Tractable.