We Define Only Out Of Despair, We

One Hardly Saves A World Without Ruling It.

I Seem To Myself, Among Civilized Men, An Intruder, A Troglodyte Enamored Of Decrepitude, Plunged Into Subversive Prayers.

What Necessity Impels A Writer Who Has Produced Fifty Books To Write Still One More? Why This Proliferation, This Fear Of Being Forgotten, This Debased Coquetry?

Tyrants Are Always Assassinated Too Late. That Is Their Great Excuse.

No Position Is So False As Having Understood And Still Remaining Alive.