One Knows Less About One's Own Destiny

The Life Of A Writer Is Tragic: The More We Advance, The Farther There Is To Go And The More There Is To Say, The Less Time There Is To Say It.

I Felt The Vulnerability, The Fragility Of The Children Of The World, And How It Was, Nonetheless, On Their Frail Shoulders That We Loaded The Weight Of Our Weary Hopes And Eternal New Beginnings.

Every Life Is A Tragedy, But Far More The Writer's Life, Because The More He Has To See, The More Deeply He Understands And Feels About Life, The Less Time He Has To Put It Down.

Curiosity Ran Unchecked Through Him, Like The Wind Outside Through The Deserted Streets, Along The Canal, Around The Little Wooden Houses, Everywhere, As Far As The Mountain.

The More The Heart Is Nourished With Happiness, The More It Is Insatiable.