Something Unappeased, Unappeasable, Is Within

In Solitude The Lonely Man Is Eaten Up By Himself, Among Crowds By The Many.

The Bite Of Conscience, Like The Bite Of A Dog Into A Stone, Is A Stupidity.

Even The Most Beautiful Scenery Is No Longer Assured Of Our Love After We Have Lived In It For Three Months, And Some Distant Coast Attracts Our Avarice: Possessions Are Generally Diminished By Possession.

The Better The State Is Established, The Fainter Is Humanity. To Make The Individual Uncomfortable, That Is My Task.

In The Mountains Of Truth, You Never Climb In Vain.