The Study Of Sickness Is The Most

I Really Only Write About Inner Landscapes And Most People Don't See Them, Because They See Practically Nothing Within, Because They Think That Because It's Inside, It's Dark, And So They Don't See Anything. I Don't Think I've Ever Yet, In Any Of My Books, Described A Landscape. There's Really Nothing Of The Kind In Any Of Them. I Only Ever Write Concepts. And So I'm Always Referring To "mountains" Or "a City" Or "streets." But As To How They Look: I've Never Produced A Description Of A Landscape. That's Never Even Interested Me.

The Study Of Sickness Is The Most Poetic Of The Sciences.

A Criminal Is Undoubtedly A Poor Soul, Who Is Punished For His Poverty.

The Thinking Man Always Finds Himself In A Gigantic Orphanage In Which People Are Continually Proving To Him That He Has No Parents.

Our Greatest Pleasure, Surely, Is In Fragments, Just As We Derive The Most Pleasure From Life If We Regard It As A Fragment, Whereas The Whole And The Complete And The Perfect Are Basically Abhorrent.