To The Solemn Graves, Near A Lonely

Even When She Walks One Would Believe That She Dances.

As The End Of The Century Approaches, All Our Culture Is Like Flies At The Beginning Of Winter. Having Lost Their Agility, Dreamy And Demented, They Turn Slowly About The Window In The First Icy Mists Of Morning, . . . [then] They Fall Down The Curtains.

A Friend Of Mine, The Most Innocuous Dreamer Who Ever Lived, Once Set A Forest On Fire To See, As He Said, If It Would Catch As Easily As People Said. The First Ten Times The Experiment Was A Failure; But On The Eleventh It Succeeded All Too Well.

God Is The Only Being Who, In Order To Reign, Doesn't Even Need To Exist.

Strangeness Is An Ingredient Necessary In Beauty.