The Only Joy In The World Is

Idleness Makes Hours Pass Slowly And Years Swiftly. Activity Makes The Hours Short And The Years Long.

I Was Happy Enough; I Knew That During The Night The Whole City Might Go Up In Flames And All Its People Be Killed, But The Ravines, Houses, And Footpaths Would Wake In The Morning Calm And Unchanged.

It Had To Happen To You, To Concentrate Your Whole Life On One Point, And Then Discover That You Can Do Anything Except Live At That Point.

In Fact A Man In Love Or One Consumed With Hatred Creates Symbols For Himself, As A Superstitious Man Does, From A Passion Of Conferring Uniqueness On Things Or Persons. A Man Who Knows Nothing Of Symbols Is One Of Dante's Sluggards. This Is Why Art Mirrors Itself In Primitive Rites Or Strong Passions, Seeking For Symbols, Revolving Round The Primitive Taste For Savagery, For What Is Irrational (blood And Sex).

But The Real, Tremendous Truth Is This: Suffering Serves No Purpose Whatever.