In Fact Living Is Dying.

Love Always Has Its Price, Come Whence It May.

Breathing, Sleeping, Drinking, Eating, Working, Dreaming, Everything We Do Is Dying. To Live, In Fact, Is To Die.

I Know Nothing More Enjoyable Than That Happy-go-lucky Wandering Life, In Which You Are Perfectly Free; Without Shackles Of Any Kind, Without Care, Without Preoccupation, Without Thought Even Of To-morrow. You Go In Any Direction You Please, Without Any Guide Save Your Fancy.

To Lie About A Far Country Is Easy

Those Men, Those Of Former Times, Had Soul And Eyes That In No Way Resemble Ours, And In Their Veins, Along With Their Blood, Flowed Something That Has Disappeared: Love And Admiration For The Beautiful.