That Translucent Alabaster Of Our Memories.

Perhaps It Is Not-being That Is The True State, And All Our Dream Of Life Is Inexistent; But, If So, We Feel That These Phrases Of Music, These Conceptions Which Exist In Relation To Our Dream, Must Be Nothing Either. We Shall Perish, But We Have As Hostages These Divine Captives Who Will Follow And Share Our Fate. And Death In Their Company Is Somehow Less Bitter, Less Inglorious, Perhaps Even Less Probable.

It Is Often Hard To Bear The Tears That We Ourselves Have Caused.

Happiness Serves Hardly Any Other Purpose Than To Make Unhappiness Possible.

Our Shadows, Now Parallel, Now Close Together And Joined, Traced An Exquisite Pattern At Our Feet.

Wars Are Fought For The Benefit Of Oligarchs, Triumphs Bought With The Blood Of Peons.