People Quickly Grow Accustomed To Being The

I Love Men, Not For What Unites Them, But For What Divides Them, And I Want To Know Most Of All What Gnaws At Their Hearts.

Without Poets, Without Artists, Men Would Soon Weary Of Nature's Monotony.

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

How Slow Life Is, How Violent Hope Is.

Without Artists, The Order Which We Find In Nature, And Which Is Only An Effect Of Art, Would At Once Vanish.