No Man Is A Complete Mystery Except

Less Disappointing Than Life, Great Works Of Art Do Not Begin By Giving Us All Their Best.

One Reads The Papers As One Wants To With A Bandage Over One's Eyes Without Trying To Understand The Facts, Listening To The Soothing Words Of The Editor As To The Words Of One S Mistress.

Many Years Have Passed Since That Night. The Wall Of The Staircase Up Which I Had Watched The Light Of His Candle Gradually Climb Was Long Ago Demolished. And In Myself, Too, Many Things Have Perished Which I Imagined Would Last For Ever, And New Ones Have Arisen, Giving Birth To New Sorrows And New Joys Which In Those Days I Could Not Have Foreseen, Just As Now The Old Are Hard To Understand.

When I Am Not Too Sad To Listen, Music Is My Consolation.

The Charms Of The Passing Woman Are Generally In Direct Ratio To The Swiftness Of Our Passage.