Of All Things That Can

Poverty Is Like A Pain, Dormant And Unbearable As Long As You Don't Move About Too Much. You Grow Used To It, You End Up By Paying No Attention To It. But Once You Presume To Bring It Out In The Daylight, It Becomes Terrifying, You See It At Last In All Its Squalor And You Shrink From Exposing It To The Sun.

Curiosity Ran Unchecked Through Him, Like The Wind Outside Through The Deserted Streets, Along The Canal, Around The Little Wooden Houses, Everywhere, As Far As The Mountain.

One Knows Less About One's Own Destiny Than About Anything Else On Earth.

Could We Ever Know Each Other In The Slightest Without The Arts?

The Life Of A Writer Is Tragic: The More We Advance, The Farther There Is To Go And The More There Is To Say, The Less Time There Is To Say It.