The Only Friends I Have Are The

Everyone, He Went On, Speaks A Language He Does Not Understand, But Which Now And Then Is Understood By Others. That Is Enough To Permit One To Exist And At Least To Be Misunderstood.

Our Greatest Pleasure, Surely, Is In Fragments, Just As We Derive The Most Pleasure From Life If We Regard It As A Fragment, Whereas The Whole And The Complete And The Perfect Are Basically Abhorrent.

A Criminal Is Undoubtedly A Poor Soul, Who Is Punished For His Poverty.

...we Ask: Why Suicide? We Search For Reasons, Causes, And So On.... We Follow The Course Of The Life He Has Now So Suddenly Terminated As Far Back As We Can. For Days We Are Preoccupied With The Question: Why Suicide? We Recollect Details. And Yet We Must Say That Everything In The Suicide's Life- For Now We Know That All His Life He Was A Suicide, Led A Suicide's Existence- Is Part Of The Cause, The Reason, For His Suicide.

We Can Only Exist By Taking Our Minds Off The Fact That We Exist