I’m losing my taste for everything, including even my taste for finding everything tasteless.

The Gods sell when they give. Glory is paid for with disgrace. Poor are the happy, for they are Just what passes.

It is noble to be shy, illustrious not to know how to act, great not to have a gift for living.

Nobody appropriates novelties as readily as the Portuguese.

All of this passes, and none of it means anything to me.It's all foreign to my fate, and even to fate as a whole. It'sjust unconsciousness, curses of protest when chance hurlsstones, echoes of unknown voices - a collectivemishmash of life.

But my sadness is comforting Because it’s right and natural And because it’s what the soul should feel When it already thinks it exists And the hand pick flowers And the soul takes no notice.

We worship perfection because we can't have it; if we had it, we would reject it. Perfection is inhuman, because humanity is imperfect.