And you're sorry that the ephemeral beauty has faded so rapidly, so irretrievably, that it flashed so deceptively and pointlessly before your eyes - you're sorry, for you didn't even have time to fall in love.

Make us your slaves, but feed us.

Pass us by, and forgive us our happiness

Lamentations comfort only by lacerating the heart still more. Such grief does not desire consolation. It feeds on the sense of its hopelessness. Lamentations spring only from the constant craving to re-open the wound.

That's always the way with fanatics; they cross themselves at the tavern and throw stones at the temple.

Sorrow compressed my heart, and I felt I would die, and then... Well, then I woke up.

If they drive God from the earth, we shall shelter Him underground.