Whatever Our Ignorance Left To Itself, And

We Have The Divinity Of Our Great Misery. And Our Solitude, With Its Toilsome Ideas, Tears And Laughter, Is Fatally Divine.

I Am More Sensitive Than Other People. Things That Other People Would Not Notice Awaken A Distinct Echo In Me, And In Such Moments Of Lucidity, When I Look At Myself, I See That I Am Alone, All Alone, All Alone.

People Are Machines Of Forgetfulness

The Woman From The Depths Of Her Rags, A Waif, A Martyr — Smiled. She Must Have A Divine Heart To Be So Tired And Yet Smile.

There Is No Hell, No Inferno Except The Frenzy Of Living.