If A Composer Suffers From Loss Of

You Are Beautiful, But You Are Empty,” He Went On. “one Could Not Die For You. To Be Sure, An Ordinary Passerby Would Think That My Rose Looked Just Like You--the Rose That Belongs To Me.

The One Thing That Matters Is The Effort.

What Was My Body To Me? A Kind Of Flunkey In My Service. Let But My Anger Wax Hot, My Love Grow Exalted, My Hatred Collect In Me, And That Boasted Solidarity Between Me And My Body Was Gone.

The Machine Does Not Isolate Man From The Great Problems Of Nature But Plunges Him More Deeply Into Them.

Truths May Clash Without Contradicting Each Other.