The Greatest Intelligence Is Precisely The One

Long Only For What You Have.

Our Deeds Attach Themselves To Us Like The Flame To Phosphorus. They Constitute Our Brilliance, To Be Sure, But Only In So Far As They Consume Us.

The Loveliest Creations Of Men Are Persistently Painful. What Would Be The Description Of Happiness? Nothing, Except What Prepares And Then What Destroys It.

The Nationalist Has A Broad Hatred And A Narrow Love.

What Would There Be In A Story Of Happiness? Only What Prepares It, Only What Destroys It Can Be Told.