The Sea Appears All Golden. Beneath The

The Arrow Belongs Not To The Archer When It Has Once Left The Bow; The Word No Longer Belongs To The Speaker When It Has Once Passed His Lips, Especially When It Has Been Multiplied By The Press.

Those Who Begin By Burning Books Will End By Burning People.

Write . . . Write . . . Pencil . . . Paper.

I Will Not Say That Women Have No Character; Rather, They Have A New One Every Day.

I Live! Red Life Boils In My Veins, Earth Yields Beneath My Feet, In The Glow Of Love I Embrace Trees And Statues, And They Live In My Embrace. Every Woman Is To Me The Gift Of A World. I Revel In The Melody Of Her Countenance, And With A Single Glance Of My Eye I Can Enjoy More Than Others With Their Every Limb Through All Their Lives.