It Is Stupid To Grieve For The

When You Dream, You Are An Author, But You Do Not Know How It Will End.

We Do Not Remember Days, We Remember Moments.

There Is Only One Pleasure-that Of Being Alive. All The Rest Is Misery.

When A Man Mourns For Someone Who Has Played Him False, It Is Not For Love Of Her, But For His Own Humiliation At Not Having Deserved Her Trust.

There Comes A Day When, For Someone Who Has Persecuted Us, We Feel Only Indifference, A Weariness At His Stupidity. Then We Forgive Him.