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Books and drafts mean something quite different for different thinkers. One collects in a book the lights he was able to steal and carry home swiftly out of the rays of some insight that suddenly dawned on him, while another thinker offers us nothing but shadows - images in black and grey of what had built up in his soul the day before.
— Friedrich Nietzsche
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She was young and very beautiful, but pale, like the grey pallor of death.
— Bram Stoker
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