There Is No Limit To Suffering.

We Interest Others By The Misfortune We Spread Around Us.

A Book Is A Suicide Postponed.

What Would Be Left Of Our Tragedies If An Insect Were To Present Us His?

As Art Sinks Into Paralysis, Artists Multiply. This Anomaly Ceases To Be One If We Realize That Art, On Its Way To Exhaustion, Has Become Both Impossible And Easy.

No One Should Forget: Eros Alone Can Fulfill Life; Knowledge, Never. Only Eros Makes Sense; Knowledge Is Empty Infinity; – For Thoughts, There Is Always Time; Life Has Its Time; There Is No Thought That Comes Too Late; Any Desire Can Become A Regret.