A Ruling Passion Gives To A Shelf

When He Was Young, He Had Thought Love Had Something To Do With Understanding, But With Age He Knew That No Human Being Understood Another. Love Was The Wish To Understand, And Presently With Constant Failure The Wish Died, And Love Died Too Perhaps Or Changed Into This Painful Affection, Loyalty, Pity.

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days.

I Envied Those Who Could Believe In A God And I Distrusted Them. I Felt They Were Keeping Their Courage Up With A Fable Of The Changeless And The Permanent. Death Was Far More Certain Than God, And With Death There Would Be No Longer The Possibility Of Love Dying.

He Was Like A Child With Haemophilia: Every Contact Drew Blood.

In Switzerland They Had Brotherly Love, Five Hundred Years Of Democracy And Peace, And What Did They Produce? The Cuckoo Clock!