One Can Hear All That's

Worse Than Not Realizing The Dreams Of Your Youth, Would Be To Have Been Young And Never Dreamed At All.

Betrayal Is Beautiful.

Crimes Of Which A People Is Ashamed Constitute Its Real History. The Same Is True Of Man.

Added To The Moral Solitude Of The Murderer Comes The Solitude Of The Artist, Which Can Acknowledge No Authority, Save That Of Another Artist.

Excluded By My Birth And Tastes From The Social Order, I Was Not Aware Of Its Diversity. Nothing In The World Was Irrelevant: The Stars On A General's Sleeve, The Stock-market Quotations, The Olive Harvest, The Style Of The Judiciary, The Wheat Exchange, Flower-beds. Nothing. This Order, Fearful And Feared, Whose Details Were All Inter-related, Had A Meaning: My Exile.