You Are -- Your Life, And Nothing

Originally, Poetry Creates The Myth, While The Prose-writer Draws Its Portrait.

With A Little Luck That Epoch May Arrive. I Am On The Side Of Those Who Think That Things Will Go Better When The World Has Changed.

One Should Commit No Stupidity Twice, The Variety Of Choice Is, In The End, Large Enough.

My Eyes Feel All Soft, All Soft As Flesh. I'm Going To Sleep.

She Suffers As A Miser. She Must Be Miserly With Her Pleasures, As Well. I Wonder If Sometimes She Doesn't Wish She Were Free Of This Monotonous Sorrow, Of These Mutterings Which Start As Soon As She Stops Singing, If She Doesn't Wish To Suffer Once And For All, To Drown Herself In Despair. In Any Case, It Would Be Impossible For Her: She Is Bound.