The True Masters Of The Art Of

Life Is A Child Playing Round Your Feet, A Tool You Hold Firmly In Your Grip, A Bench You Sit Down Upon In The Evening, In Your Garden.

It Is Restful, Tragedy, Because One Knows That There Is No More Lousy Hope Left. You Know You're Caught, Caught At Last Like A Rat With All The World On Its Back. And The Only Thing Left To Do Is Shout - Not Moan, Or Complain, But Yell Out At The Top Of Your Voice Whatever It Was You Had To Say. What You've Never Said Before. What Perhaps You Don't Even Know Till Now.

Rien N'est Vrai Que Ce Qu'on Ne Dit Pas. Nothing Is True Except That Which Is Unsaid.

Life Is Very Nice, But It Lacks Form. It's The Aim Of Art To Give It Some.

With God, What Is Terrible Is That One Never Knows Whether It's Not Just A Trick Of The Devil.