Once You See That Everything Is Unreal,

True Contact Between Beings Is Established Only By Mute Presence, By Apparent Non-communication, By That Mysterious And Wordless Exchange Which Resembles Inward Prayer.

No One Recovers From The Disease Of Being Born, A Deadly Wound If There Ever Was One.

Woes And Wonders Of Power, That Tonic Hell, Synthesis Of Poison And Panacea.

If, At The Limit, You Can Rule Without Crime, You Cannot Do So Without Injustices.

Tragic Paradox Of Freedom: The Mediocre Men Who Alone Make Its Exercise Possible Cannot Guarantee Its Duration.