Truth Is What Most Contradicts Itself.

An Idea Is Like A Rare Bird Which Cannot Be Seen. What One Sees Is The Trembling Of The Branch It Has Just Left.

Of Women, The Most We Can Say, Not Being Frenchmen, Is That They Are Burrowing Animals.

We Are The Children Of Our Landscape; It Dictates Behavior And Even Thought In The Measure To Which We Are Responsive To It.

People Only See In Us The Contemptible Skirt-fever Which Rules Our Actions But Completely Miss The Beauty-hunger Underlying It.

These Are The Moments Which Are Not Calculable, And Cannot Be Assessed In Words; They Live On In The Solution Of Memory, Like Wonderful Creatures, Unique Of Their Own Kind, Dredged Up From The Floors Of Some Unexplored Ocean.