Death Is Beautiful. It Alone Gives Love

Inspiration Is A Farce That Poets Have Invented To Give Themselves Importance.

Life Is A Child Playing Round Your Feet, A Tool You Hold Firmly In Your Grip, A Bench You Sit Down Upon In The Evening, In Your Garden.

Believe Me; All Evil Comes From The Old. They Grow Fat On Ideas And Young Men Die Of Them.

When You Are Forty, Half Of You Belongs To The Past... And When You Are Seventy, Nearly All Of You.

Our Entire Life, With Our Fine Moral Code And Our Precious Freedom, Consists Ultimately In Accepting Ourselves As We Are.