History Is The Autobiography Of

The Death Of The Contemporary Forms Of Social Order Ought To Gladden Rather Than Trouble The Soul. Yet What Is Frightening Is That The Departing World Leaves Behind It Not An Heir, But A Pregnant Widow. Between The Death Of The One And The Birth Of The Other, Much Water Will Flow By, A Long Night Of Chaos And Desolation Will Pass.

We Could Hardly Believe That After So Many Ordeals, After All The Trials Of Modern Skepticism, There Was Still So Much Left In Our Souls To Destroy.

People Who Have Realized That This Is A Dream Imagine That It Is Easy To Wake Up, And Are Angry With Those Who Continue Sleeping, Not Considering That The Whole World That Environs Them Does Not Permit Them To Wake. Life Proceeds As A Series Of Optical Illusions, Artificial Needs And Imaginary Sensations.

We Have Wasted Our Spirit In The Regions Of The Abstract And General Just As The Monks Let It Wither In The World Of Prayer And Contemplation.

To Build A City Where It Is Impossible To Build A City Is Madness In Itself, But To Build There One Of The Most Elegant And Grandest Of Cities Is The Madness Of Genius.