Pure Logic Is The Ruin Of The

But If You Come At Just Any Time, I Shall Never Know At What Hour My Heart Is To Be Ready To Greet You.

Night, The Beloved. Night, When Words Fade And Things Come Alive. When The Destructive Analysis Of Day Is Done, And All That Is Truly Important Becomes Whole And Sound Again. When Man Reassembles His Fragmentary Self And Grows With The Calm Of A Tree.

What Value Has Compassion That Does Not Take Its Object In Its Arms?

Grown Ups Are Certainly Very Strange.

Living Is Being Born Slowly. It Would Be A Little Too Easy If We Could Borrow Ready-made Souls.