A Great Wind Swept Over The Ghetto,

What We Need Is Hatred. From It Our Ideas Are Born.

We Know That Their Adventures Are Childish. They Themselves Are Fools. They Are Ready To Kill Or Be Killed Over A Card-game In Which An Opponent - Or They Themselves - Was Cheating. Yet, Thanks To Such Fellows, Tragedies Are Possible.

To Achieve Harmony In Bad Taste Is The Height Of Elegance.

The Despondency That Follows Makes Me Feel Somewhat Like A Shipwrecked Man Who Spies A Sail, Sees Himself Saved, And Suddenly Remembers That The Lens Of His Spyglass Has A Flaw, A Blurred Spot -- The Sail He Has Seen.

They Spent Their Time Doing Nothing... They Let Intimacy Fuse Them.