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64 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1930
We run around the world, jump trams, rush on in trains and what is a purpose of all this? Only to catch our own unhappiness by the tail.
One may get it as an ephemeral creature with a voice as tender as a brook of spring and with such lucid mirrors of soul on a face that the lyrical verses can be written about. Another may grab it as a perfidious pleasantness of a high social position. The third obtains it under a guise of a friend with a generous heart in which, it seems, one may drown whole.
“Reseda is in bloom… And its redolence is captivating.”
“In bloom! Fragrance! And what will happen in a week? It probably will have a putrid odour.”
“Perhaps it will be so.”
“So what is a reason for happiness? Flowers live for a week then they wilt, wither, rot but you’re exalted. People are curious things!”
«Вообще, я давно пришёл к заключению, что мы бесконечно много тратим энергии, хитрости, изобретательности и остроумия, чтобы сделать своё собственное существование наименее сносным»