Nobody Loves The Light Like The Blind

There Are No Weeds, And No Worthless Men. There Are Only Bad Farmers.

Style Is The Substance Of The Subject Called Unceasingly To The Surface.

Let Us Leave To The Brain What Belongs To It, And Agree That The Work Of The Men Of Genius Is Of The Superhuman, The Offspring Of Man.

Music Expresses That Which Cannot Be Said And On Which It Is Impossible To Be Silent.

At Least You Are Mine! Soon – In A Few Months, Perhaps, My Angel Will Sleep In My Arms, Will Awaken In My Arms, Will Live There. All Your Thought At All Moments, All Your Looks Will Be For Me; All My Thought, All My Moments, All My Looks Will Be For You!