To Exist Is A Habit I Do

A Civilization Begins To Decline The Moment Life Becomes Its Sole Obsession.

Progress Is The Injustice Each Generation Commits With Regard To Its Predecessors.

Is It Possible That Existence Is Our Exile And Nothingness Our Home?

If A Man Has Not, By The Time He Is Thirty, Yielded To The Fascination Of Every Form Of Extremism—i Don't Know Whether He Is To Be Admired Or Scorned, Regarded As A Saint Or A Corpse.

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