The Loss Of Love Is The Loss

The End Of Their Passion Consists Of Loving Uselessly At The Moment When It Is Pointless.

There Is No Love Of Life Without Despair Of Life.

Since We're All Going To Die, It's Obvious That When And How Don't Matter.

I Feel More Fellowship With The Defeated Than With Saints.

After All Perhaps The Greatness Of Art Lies In The Perpetual Tension Between Beauty And Pain, The Love Of Men And The Madness Of Creation, Unbearable Solitude And The Exhausting Crowd, Rejection And Consent.