The Art Of Living Is The Art

Life Is Pain And The Enjoyment Of Love Is An Anesthetic.

No One Ever Lacks A Good Reason For Suicide.

Traveling Is A Brutality. It Forces You To Trust Strangers And To Lose Sight Of All That Familiar Comfort Of Home And Friends. You Are Constantly Off Balance. Nothing Is Yours Except The Essential Things: Air, Sleep, Dreams, Sea, The Sky - All Things Tending Towards The Eternal Or What We Imagine Of It.

It Is Not The Actual Enjoyment Of Pleasure That We Desire. What We Want Is To Test The Futility Of That Pleasure, So As To Be No Longer Obsessed By It.

Life Is Not A Search For Experience, But For Ourselves. Having Discovered Our Own Fundamental Level We Realize That It Conforms To Our Own Destiny And We Find Peace.