"My head was a desolate place and as barren as the bare hills of Le Marche. Until I began to build in it, only vultures nested there."

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O world, world when I was younger I thought there was some order governing you and your deeds. But now you seem to be a labyrinth of errors, a frightful desert, a den of wild beasts, a game in which men move in circles…a stony field, a meadow full of serpents, a flowering but barren orchard, a spring of cares, a river of tears, a sea of suffering, a vain hope.

— Fernando de Rojas