In The East Men Know Panic, But

Words Dazzle And Deceive Because They Are Mimed By The Face. But Black Words On A White Page Are The Soul Laid Bare.

Sometimes Our Thoughts Turn Back Toward A Corner In A Forest, Or The End Of A Bank, Or An Orchard Powdered With Flowers, Seen But A Single Time On Some Happy Day, Yet Remaining In Our Hearts And Leaving In Soul And Body An Unappeased Desire Which Is Not To Be Forgotten, A Feeling That We Have Just Rubbed Elbows With Happiness.

The Only Certainty Is Death.

How Weak Our Mind Is; How Quickly It Is Terrified And Unbalanced As Soon As We Are Confronted With A Small, Incomprehensible Fact. Instead Of Dismissing The Problem With: "we Do Not Understand Because We Cannot Find The Cause," We Immediately Imagine Terrible Mysteries And Supernatural Powers.

We Live Always Under The Weight Of The Old And Odious Customs... Of Our Barbarous Ancestors.