In Fact Living Is Dying.

...a Strange Art – Music – The Most Poetic And Precise Of All The Arts, Vague As A Dream And Precise As Algebra.

There Are In France Some Fifty Thousand Young Men Of Good Birth And Fairly Well Off Who Are Encouraged To Live A Life Of Complete Idleness. They Must Either Cease To Exist Or Must Come To See That There Can Be No Happiness, No Health Even, Without Regular Daily Labor Of Some Sort... The Need Of Work Is In Me.

Travel, Like Dreams, Is A Door That Opens From The Real World Into A World That Is Yet To Be Discovered

Everything Is False, Everything Is Possible, Everything Is Doubtful.

Love Always Has Its Price, Come Whence It May.