It's scary what greed can do to people.

What I saw shining there was neither anger nor sorrow.
It was the cold flash of contempt - contempt for me.

Drifting somewhere between dream and reality.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ᴀʀᴇᴀ ᴡᴀs ǫᴜɪᴇᴛ.
ɴᴏ-
ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ.
ɪ ʟɪsᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ sᴏᴜɴᴅ, ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ɪ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇᴅ - ɪ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴡᴀs ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ.

I lay there wrapped in a deep silence.

I sank once and for all into the darkness between lives.

That face of hers, for some reason, was always ashen and lifeless.

I often feel as if there is a fortyish woman somewhere - a phantom - watching over my life.
Might it be the work of some supernatural power giving occasional glimpses of itself to the real world?

إنني أعيشُ الآن في «سعادة مُنتهى التعاسة»

The sun threatened to set before long, but he went on threading book spines with undiminished intensity. Lined up before him was not so much an array of books as the fin de siècle itself. Nietzsche, Verlaine, the Goncourt brothers, Dostoevsky, Hauptmann, Flaubert.

He often wondered if people who loved each other had to cause each other pain.

𝘏𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦

This passion for pictures gave him a whole new way of looking at the world. He began to pay constant attention to the curve of a branch or the swell of a woman's cheek.

Spreading these man-made wings, he soared with ease into the sky. The higher he flew, the farther below him sank the joys and sorrows of a life bathed in the light of intellect. Dropping ironies and smiles upon the shabby towns below, he climbed through the open sky, straight for the sun as if he had forgotten about that ancient Greek who plunged to his death in the ocean when his man-made wings were singed by the sun.

He discovered in this painter a poetry of which no one else was aware.