Tears Do Not Burn Except In Solitude.

Everything Is Pathology, Except For Indifference.

We Die In Proportion To The Words We Fling Around Us.

Old Age, After All, Is Merely The Punishment For Having Lived.

If We Had The Courage To Confront The Doubts We Timidly Conceive About Ourselves, None Of Us Would Utter An 'i' Without Shame.

If A Man Has Not, By The Time He Is Thirty, Yielded To The Fascination Of Every Form Of Extremism—i Don't Know Whether He Is To Be Admired Or Scorned, Regarded As A Saint Or A Corpse.