How can a people who do not mean to understand death hope to understand love, and who will sound the alarm?

There isn't a king or a merchant prince in the whole world that I envy, for I always knew I was born to be a child of destiny and that I was never meant to wring my living from detestable, low, degrading, mean and ordinary kinds of business.

The organizations of men, like men themselves, seem subject to deafness, near-sightedness, lameness, and involuntary cruelty. We seem tragically unable to help one another, to understand one another.

My veins are filled, once a week with a Neapolitan carpet cleaner distilled from the Adriatic and I am as bald as an egg. However I still get around and am mean to cats.

I dream that my face appears on a postage stamp.

How can a people who do not mean to understand death hope to understand love, and who will sound the alarm?

That's the way I remember them, heading for an exit.