Shattered People Are Best Represented By Bits

Works Of Art Are Of An Infinite Loneliness And With Nothing So Little To Be Reached As With Criticism.

Ah, How Good It Is To Be Among People Who Are Reading!

Perhaps The Same Bird Echoed Through Both Of Us Yesterday, Seperate, In The Evening.

Just As Language Has No Longer Anything In Common With The Thing It Names, So The Movements Of Most Of The People Who Live In Cities Have Lost Their Connection With The Earth; They Hang, As It Were, In The Air, Hover In All Directions, And Find No Place Where They Can Settle.

We Wasters Of Sorrows! How We Stare Away Into Sad Endurance Beyond Them, Trying To Foresee Their End! Whereas They Are Nothing Else Than Our Winter Foliage, Our Sombre Evergreen, One Of The Seasons Of Our Interior Year.