I can't even make up a rhyme about an umbrella, let alone death and life and eternal peace.

I love three things," I then say. "I love a dream of love I once had, I love you, and I love this patch of earth." "And which do you love best?" "The dream.

But now it was spring again, and spring was almost unbearable for sensitive hearts. It drove creation to its utmost limits, it wafted its spice-laden breath even into the nostrils of the innocent.

No worse fate can befall a young man or woman than becoming prematurely entrenched in prudence and negation.

The whisper of the blood and the pleading of the bone marrow.

Truth is neither ojectivity nor the balanced view; truth is a selfless subjectivity.

Love is every bit as violent and dangerous as murder.