Tears Do Not Burn Except In Solitude.

The Curtain Of The Universe Is Moth-eaten, And Through Its Holes We See Nothing Now But Mask And Ghost.

Our Works, Whatever They May Be, Derive From Our Incapacity To Kill Or To Kill Ourselves.

No One Can Keep His Griefs In Their Prime; They Use Themselves Up.

All That Shimmers On The Surface Of The World, All That We Call Interesting, Is The Fruit Of Ignorance And Inebriation.

As The Years Pass, The Number Of Those We Can Communicate With Diminishes. When There Is No Longer Anyone To Talk To, At Last We Will Be As We Were Before Stooping To A Name.