The Only True Language In The World

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

A Lively Retrospect Summons Back To Us Once More Our Youth, With Vivid Reflex Of Its Early Joys And Unstained Pleasures.

Alas, Everything That Men Say To One Another Is Alike; The Ideas They Exchange Are Almost Always The Same, In Their Conversation. But Inside All Those Isolated Machines, What Hidden Recesses, What Secret Compartments! It Is An Entire World That Each One Carries Within Him, An Unknown World That Is Born And Dies In Silence! What Solitudes All These Human Bodies Are!

In My Flowery Dreams There's Always You. I Do Not Regret It One Bit.

I Have Come Too Late Into A World Too Old.