Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuff and bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the sky.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.

Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.

I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of the wanderer's death

When man resolved to imitate walking, he invented the wheel, which does not look like a leg. In doing this, he was practicing surrealism without knowing it.