Wit is often a mask. If you tear it you will find either genius irritated or cleverness juggling.
Poverty is a veil that obscures the face of greatness. An appeal is a mask covering the face of tribulation.
Seven times have I despised my soul: The sixth time when she despised the ugliness of a face, and knew not that it was one of her own masks.
For the first time the sun kissed my own naked face and my soul was inflamed with love for the sun, and I wanted my masks no more. And as if in a trance I cried, "Blessed, blessed are the thieves who stole my masks." Thus I became a madman.
Death changes nothing but the mask that covers our faces.
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