April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.

We shall not cease from exploration

A prose that is altogether alive demands something of the reader that the ordinary novel reader is not prepared to give.

Our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and of our visible, sensible world.

I would meet you upon this honestly. I that was near your heart was removed therefrom To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition. I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it Since what is kept must be adulterated? I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch: How should I use them for your closer contact?

The journey, Not the destination matters.

It is worth while dying, to find out what life is.