Writing History Is Like Drinking An Ocean

Of All The Icy Blasts That Blow On Love, A Request For Money Is The Most Chilling.

Nothing Is More Humiliating Than To See Idiots Succeed In Enterprises We Have Failed In.

I Go Dreaming Into The Future, Where I See Nothing, Nothing. I Have No Plans, No Idea, No Project, And, What Is Worse, No Ambition. Something – The Eternal ‘what’s The Use?’ – Sets Its Bronze Barrier Across Every Avenue That I Open Up In The Realm Of Hypothesis.

Love Is A Springtime Plant That Perfumes Everything With Its Hope, Even The Ruins To Which It Clings.

The One Way Of Tolerating Existence Is To Lose Oneself In Literature As In A Perpetual Orgy.