I always succeed in not being jealous but only sometimes in comprehending the pointlessness of jealousy.

People who walk across dark bridges, past saints,with dim, small lights.Clouds which move across gray skiespast churcheswith towers darkened in the dusk.One who leans against granite railinggazing into the evening waters,His hands resting on old stones.

I never wish to be easily defined. I’d rather float over other people’s minds as something strictly fluid and non-perceivable; more like a transparent, paradoxically iridescent creature rather than an actual person.

So eager are our people to obliterate the present.

There was once a community of scoundrels, that is to say, they were not scoundrels, but ordinary people.

What is meant by its nature for the highest and the best, spreads among the lowly people.