I don't believe you! Flowers are weak creatures. They are naive. They reassure themselves as best they can. They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons.

Action and personal happiness have no truck with each other; they are eternally at war.

You are beautiful, but you are empty,” he went on. “One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me.

Defeat may prove to have been the only path to resurrection, despite its ugliness.

But games always cover something deep and intense, else there would be no excitement in them, no pleasure, no power to stir us.

On ne sait jamais! One never knows!

Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree.