Our Emotions Are Only “incidents” In The

When The Whole World Is Running Headlong Towards The Precipice, One Who Walks In The Opposite Direction Is Looked At As Being Crazy.

And Voices Singing Out Of Empty Cisterns And Exhausted Wells.

April Is The Cruelest Month, Breeding Lilacs Out Of The Dead Land, Mixing Memory And Desire, Stirring Dull Roots With Spring Rain.

The More Perfect The Artist, The More Completely Separate In Him Will Be The Man Who Suffers And The Mind Which Creates.

Should I, After Tea And Cakes And Ices, Have The Strength To Force The Moment To Its Crisis?