Death is like a fisherman, who, having caught a fish in his net, leaves it in the water for a time; the fish continues to swim about, but all the while the net is round it, and the fisherman will snatch it out in his own good time.

So many memories and so little worth remembering, and in front of me - a long, long road without a goal.

The past was a dream wasn't it? And who ever remembers dreams?

Circumstances define us; they force us onto one road or another, and then they punish us for it.

What a magnificent body, how I should like to see it on the dissecting table.

What did I hope for, what did I expect, what rich future did I foresee, when the phantom of my first love, rising up for an instant, barely called forth one sigh, one mournful sentiment?

Ah, but in time the heat of noontide passes, and to it there succeed nightfall and dusk, with a return to the quiet fold where for the weary an the heavy-laden there waits sleep, sweet sleep.