The Sense Of Wonder, That Is Our

That Is Almost The Whole Of Russian Literature: The Phenomenal Coruscations Of The Souls Of Quite Commonplace People.

Having Achieved And Accomplished Love, Then The Man Passes Into The Unknown. He Has Become Himself, His Tale Is Told.

The Acrid Scents Of Autumn, Reminiscent Of Slinking Beasts, Make Me Fear

Sleep Seems To Hammer Out For Me The Logical Conclusions Of My Vague Days, And Offer Them To Me As Dreams.

Anatomy Presupposes A Corpse; Psychology Presupposes A World Of Corpses.