Time, Which Grays Hair And Wrinkles Faces,

Given That We Cannot Know All The Elements In A Problem, We Never Can Solve It.

That Is My Morality Or My Metaphysics Or Me Myself: A Passer-by In Everything, Even My Own Soul. I Belong To Nothing, I Desire Nothing, I Am Nothing Except An Abstract Centre Of Impersonal Sensations, A Sentient Mirror Fallen From The Wall But Still Turned To Reflect The Diversity Of The World.

Nobody Appropriates Novelties As Readily As The Portuguese.

To Have Defined And Sure Opinions, Fixed And Known Instincts, Passions And Character - All That Is The Horror Of Turning Our Soul Into A Fact, Materialize It And Make It External.

But Do We Really Live? To Live Without Knowing What Life Is - Is That Living?