An Idea Is Like A Rare Bird

The Sense Of Truth No Matter How Subjective Is Necessary For The Experience Of Beauty.

No History Much? Perhaps. Only This Ominous Dark Beauty Flowering Under Veils, Trapped In The Spectrum Of A Dying Style: A Village Like An Instinct Left To Rust, Composed Around The Echo Of A Pistol-shot.

The Artist's Work Constitutes The Only Satisfactory Relationship He Can Have With His Fellow Men Since He Seeks His Real Friends Among The Dead And The Unborn.

The Realisation Of One's Own Death Is The Point At Which One Becomes Adult.

Shyness Has Laws You Can Only Give Yourself; Tragically To Those Who Least Understand.