In Holland, Everyone Is An Expert In

There Is A Terrible Emptiness In Me, An Indifference That Hurts.

We Turn Our Backs On Nature; We Are Ashamed Of Beauty. Our Wretched Tragedies Have A Smell Of The Office Clinging To Them, And The Blood That Trickles From Them Is The Color Of Printer's Ink.

The Byronic Hero, Incapable Of Love, Or Capable Only Of An Impossible Love, Suffers Endlessly. He Is Solitary, Languid, His Condition Exhausts Him. If He Wants To Feel Alive, It Must Be In The Terrible Exaltation Of A Brief And Destructive Action.

I Am Alive Again, Now That I Can No Longer Stand To Live.

We Call First Truths Those We Discover After All The Others.