The very ink with which history is written is merely fluid prejudice.
The source of all humor is not laughter, but sorrow.
It is a time when one's spirit is subdued and sad, one knows not why; when the past seems a storm-swept desolation, life a vanity and a burden, and the future but a way to death.
We often feel sad in the presence of music without words; and often more than that in the presence of music without music.
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