Reality Is A Prison, Where One Vegetates

The Problem Is Not The Harshness Of Fate, For Anything We Want Strongly Enough We Get. The Trouble Is Rather That When We Have It We Grow Sick Of It, And Then We Should Never Blame Fate, Only Our Own Desire.

If It Is True That One Gets Used To Suffering, How Is It That As The Years Go One Always Suffers More? No, They Are Not Mad, Those People Who Amuse Themselves, Enjoy Life, Travel, Make Love, Fight They Are Not Mad. We Should Like To Do The Same Ourselves.

There Is Mercy For Everyone, Except Those Who Are Bored With Life.

Artists Are The Monks Of The Bourgeois State.

I've Discovered Nothing. But Do You Remember How Much We Talked When We Were Boys? We Talked Just For The Fun Of It. We Knew Very Well It Was Only Talk, But Still We Enjoyed It.