Memory is a crazy woman who hoards colored rags and throws away food.
An Englishmen thinks seated; a Frenchmen standing; an American pacing, an Irishman, afterwards.
When a great life sets it leaves an afterglow on the sky far into the night.
Despair is vinegar from the wine of hope.
Truth lives in the cellar, error on the doorstep.
Human truth is always soiled with falsehood.