Time Is Born In The Eyes, Everybody

Of All Our Feelings The Only One Which Really Doesn't Belong To Us Is Hope. Hope Belongs To Life, It's Life Itself Defending Itself. Etcetera.

The Mysterious Does Not Spell Itself Out In Capital Letters, As Many Writers Believe, But Is Always Between, An Interstice.

Now That I Think About It, It Seems To Me That’s What Idiocy Is: The Ability To Be Enthusiastic All The Time About Anything You Like, So That A Drawing On The Wall Does Not Have To Be Diminished By The Memory Of The Frescoes Of Giotto In Padua.

Human History Is The Sad Result Of Each One Looking Out For Himself.

I Have Never Described This To You Before, Not So Much, I Don't Think, From Lack Of Truthfulness As That, Just Naturally, One Is Not Going To Explain To People At Large That From Time To Time One Vomits Up A Small Rabbit.