I Dream Of A Language

Melancholy Redeems This Universe, And Yet It Is Melancholy That Separates Us From It.

Criticism Is A Misconception: We Must Read Not To Understand Others But To Understand Ourselves.

Each Of Us Is Born With A Share Of Purity, Predestined To Be Corrupted By Our Commerce With Mankind, By That Sin Against Solitude.

To Hope Is To Contradict The Future.

What To Think Of Other People? I Ask Myself This Question Each Time I Make A New Acquaintance. So Strange Does It Seem To Me That We Exist, And That We Consent To Exist.