Reading the epitaphs, our only salvation lies in resurrecting the dead and burying the living.
In the spider-web of facts, many a truth is strangled.
We hew and saw and plane facts to make them dovetail with our prejudices, so that they become mere ornaments with which to parade our objectivity.
We mourn the transitory things and fret under the yoke of the immutable ones.
With the stones we cast at them, geniuses build new roads with them.
Avarice is fear sheathed in gold.