In The Opera We Call Love, The

Nobody Loves The Light Like The Blind Man.

The Man Who Does Not Know Other Languages, Unless He Is A Man Of Genius, Necessarily Has Deficiencies In His Ideas.

...the Girls Chirped And Chatted Like Uncaged Warblers. They Were Delirious With Joy... Intoxications Of Life’s Morning! Enchanted Years! The Wing Of A Dragonfly Trembles! Oh, Reader, Whoever You May Be, Do You Have Such Memories? Have You Walked In The Underbrush, Pushing Aside Branches For The Charming Head Behind You? Have You Slid Laughing, Down Some Slope Wet With Rain, With The Woman You Loved?

I Am A Soul. I Know Well That What I Shall Render Up To The Grave Is Not Myself. That Which Is Myself Will Go Elsewhere. Earth, Thou Art Not My Abyss!

The Author Creates A Book And The People Accept Or Not Accept It. The Creator Of A Book Is An Author And The Creator Of It`s Fate Are People.