What Have We All Got

Its Typical Of Mexico, Of The Whole Human Race Perhaps — Violence In Favour Of An Ideal And Then The Ideal Lost But The Violence Just Going On.

One Can't Love Humanity. One Can Only Love People.

The Sense Of Unhappiness Is So Much Easier To Convey Than That Of Happiness. In Misery We Seem Aware Of Our Own Existence, Even Though It May Be In The Form Of A Monstrous Egotism: This Pain Of Mine Is Individual, This Nerve That Winces Belongs To Me And To No Other. But Happiness Annihilates Us: We Lose Our Identity.

At One With The One, It Didn't Mean A Thing Besides A Glass Of Guinness On A Sunny Day.

Hope Was An Instinct Only The Reasoning Human Mind Could Kill. An Animal Never Knew Despair.