Speech Is A Rolling Press

I Don't Believe That Happiness Is Possible, But I Think Tranquility Is.

We Swung Between Madness And Suicide ... It Was Beautiful!

I Detest My Fellow-beings And Do Not Feel That I Am Their Fellow At All

We Think Of Women At Every Age: While Still Children, We Fondle With A Naïve Sensuality The Breasts Of Those Grown-up Girls Kissing Us And Cuddling Us In Their Arms; At The Age Of Ten, We Dream Of Love; At Fifteen, Love Comes Along; At Sixty, It Is Still With Us, And If Dead Men In Their Tombs Have Any Thought In Their Heads, It Is How To Make Their Way Underground To The Nearby Grave, Lift The Shroud Of The Dear Departed Women, And Mingle With Her In Her Sleep

Talent Is Long Patience.