One Can't Carry One's Father's Corpse About

One Day/ One Day I Waited For Myself/ I Said To Myself Guillaume It's Time You Came/ So I Could Know Just Who I Am/ I Who Know Others.

I Sing The Joy Of Wandering And The Pleasure Of The Wanderer's Death

It's Raining My Soul, It's Raining, But It's Raining Dead Eyes.

Geometry Is To The Plastic Arts What Grammar Is To The Art Of The Writer.

We Cannot Carry Our Father's Corpse With Us Everywhere We Go.