The World Is Not Made Of Molecules,

I Lived In The First Century Of World Wars. Most Mornings I Would Be More Or Less Insane.

I Am Working Out The Vocabulary Of My Silence.

In Time Of Crisis, We Summon Up Our Strength. Then, If We Are Lucky, We Are Able To Call Every Resource, Every Forgotten Image That Can Leap To Our Quickening, Every Memory That Can Make Us Know Our Power. And This Luck Is More Than It Seems To Be: It Depends On The Long Preparation Of The Self To Be Used.

Not All Things Are Blest, But The Seeds Of All Things Are Blest.

I Am Haunted By Interrupted Acts, Introspective As A Leper, Enchanted By A Repulsive Clew, A Gross And Fugitive Movement Of The Limbs. Is This The Love That Shook The Lights To Flame?