Nothing Touches A Work Of Art So

The Longer I Live, The More Necessary It Seems To Me To Endure, To Copy The Whole Dictation Of Existence To The End, For It Might Be That Only The Last Sentence Contains That Small, Perhaps Inconspicuous Word Through Which All Laboriously Learned And Not Understood Orients Itself Toward Glorious Sense.

Be, In This Immensity Of Night, The Magic Force At Your Sense's Crossroad.

As People Used To Be Wrong About The Motion Of The Sun, So They Are Still Wrong About The Motion Of The Future. The Future Stands Still, It Is We Who Move In Infinite Space.

Do Not Allow Yourself To Be Misled By The Surfaces Of Things

What Is Needed Is, In The End, Simply This: Solitude, Great Inner Solitude.