When I Write, I Solemnly Visit Myself.

Life Is Full Of Paradoxes, As Roses Are Of Thorns.

That Is My Morality Or My Metaphysics Or Me Myself: A Passer-by In Everything, Even My Own Soul. I Belong To Nothing, I Desire Nothing, I Am Nothing Except An Abstract Centre Of Impersonal Sensations, A Sentient Mirror Fallen From The Wall But Still Turned To Reflect The Diversity Of The World.

What Is Art But The Denial Of Life?

The Inventor Of The Mirror Poisoned The Human Heart.

Sailing Is Necessary, Living Is Not Necessary.