A good man never dies.

Someone spoke of your death, Heraclitus. It brought me Tears, and I remembered how often together We ran the sun down with talk . . . somewhere You've long been dust, my Halicarnassian friend. But your Nightingales live on. Though the Death world Claws at everything, it will not touch them.

A great book is like great evil.

O Charidas, what of the under world? Great darkness. And what of the resurrection? A lie. And Pluto? A fable; we perish utterly.

A good man never dies.

I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

Big book, a big bore.