An Iron Chain Is Less Difficult To

Up To One's Last Breath, One May Retain The Simple Joys Of Childhood, The Poetic Ecstasies Of The Young Person, The Enthusiasms Of Maturity. Right To The End, One May Intoxicate One's Spirit With Flowers, With Beauty And With Smiles.

When We Love, We See The Infinite In The Finite. We Find The Creator In The Creation.

Passing Beauties Are Only The Fugitive Reflections Of The Eternal. All Beauty Alters And All Life Melts Away; In Short, Everything Passes With Marvelous Rapidity; Beautiful Helen Of Troy Has Become A Toothless Skull, Then A Handful Of Dust, Then Nothing.

When One Creates Phantoms For Oneself, One Puts Vampires Into The World, And One Must Nourish These Children Of A Voluntary Nightmare With One's Blood, One's Life, One's Intellegence, And One's Reason, Without Ever Satisfying Them.

The Placer Is An Enemy Who Must Necessarily Become Our Lord Or Our Slave; One Doesn't Enjoy If It's Not Defeated.