The Ultimate, Most Holy Form Of Theory

When I Encounter A Sunrise, A Painting, A Woman, Or An Idea That Makes My Heart Bound Like A Young Calf, Then I Know I Am Standing In Front Of Happiness.

A Woman's Body Is A Dark And Monstrous Mystery; Between Her Supple Thighs A Heavy Whirlpool Swirls, Two Rivers Crash, And Woe To Him Who Slips And Falls!

When Shall I At Last Retire Into Solitude Alone, Without Companions, Without Joy And Without Sorrow, With Only The Sacred Certainty That All Is A Dream? When, In My Rags—without Desires—shall I Retire Contented Into The Mountains? When, Seeing That My Body Is Merely Sickness And Crime, Age And Death, Shall I—free, Fearless, And Blissful—retire To The Forest? When? When, Oh When?

I Felt Once More How Simple And Frugal A Thing Is Happiness: A Glass Of Wine, A Roast Chestnut, A Wretched Little Brazier, The Sound Of The Sea. Nothing Else.

God Changes His Appearance Every Second. Blessed Is The Man Who Can Recognize Him In All His Disguises.