To Act Is To Anchor In The

Melancholy: An Appetite No Misery Satisfies.

My Mission Is To See Things As They Are. Exactly Contrary Of A Mission.

Everything Turns On Pain; The Rest Is Accessory, Even Nonexistent, For We Remember Only What Hurts. Painful Sensations Being The Only Real Ones, It Is Virtually Useless To Experience Others.

The Truly Solitary Being Is Not The Man Who Is Abandoned By Men, But The Man Who Suffers In Their Midst, Who Drags His Desert Through The Marketplace And Deploys His Talents As A Smiling Leper, A Mountebank Of The Irreparable.

Espousing The Melancholy Of Ancient Symbols, I Would Have Freed Myself.