Truth, Like Light Is Dazzling. By Contrast,

Some Other Memories Of The Funeral Have Stuck In My Mind. The Old Boy’s Face, For Instance, When He Caught Up With Us For The Last Time, Just Outside The Village. His Eyes Were Streaming With Tears, Of Exhaustion Or Distress, Or Both Together. But Because Of The Wrinkles They Couldn’t Flow Down. They Spread Out, Crisscrossed, And Formed A Smooth Gloss On The Old, Worn Face.

Existence Is Illusory And It Is Eternal.

In Italian Museums Are Sometimes Found Little Painted Screens That The Priest Used To Hold In Front Of The Face Of Condemned Men To Hide The Scaffold From Them.

Happiness Is Not Everything And Men Have Their Duties. Mine Is To Find My Mother, A Homeland

We Must Learn How To Lend Ourselves To Dreaming When Dreams Lend Themselves To Us.