Disgrace Is The Synonym Of Discovery.

It Was One Of Those Somber Evenings When The Sighing Of The Wind Resembles The Moans Of A Dying Man; A Storm Was Brewing, And Between The Splashes Of Rain On The Windows There Was The Silence Of Death. All Nature Suffers In Such Moments; The Trees Writhe In Pain And Twist Their Heads; The Birds Of The Fields Cower Under The Bushes; The Streets Of Cities Are Deserted.

There Is No Worse Sorrow Than Remembering Happiness In The Day Of Sorrow.

Repartee Is Altogether A Natural Endowment, And Is The Lightning Of The Mind.

The Blood Of My Motherland Waters A Magic Plant That Cures All Ills. That Plant Is Art, And Sometimes Art Needs Corruption As A Kind Of Fertilizer

Great Artists Have No Country.