A Republic May Be Called The Climate

For, To Make Deserts, God, Who Rules Mankind, Begins With Kings, And Ends The Work By Wind.

These Two Beings, Who Had Loved Each Other So Exclusively, And With So Touching A Love, And Who Had Lived So Long For Each Other, Were Now Suffering Beside One Another And Through One Another; Without Speaking Of It, Without Harsh Feeling, And Smiling All The While.

In The Opera We Call Love, The Libretto Is Almost Nothing.

In Saying No To Progress, It Is Not The Future Which They Condemn, But Themselves. They Give Themselves A Melancholy Disease; They Inoculate Themselves With The Past. There Is But One Way Of Refusing Tomorrow, That Is To Die.

When People Look Back At Their Childhood Or Youth, Their Wistfulness Comes From The Memory, Not Of What Their Lives Had Been In Those Years, But Of What Life Had Then Promised To Be. The Expectation Of Some Indefinable Splendor, Of The Unusual, The Exciting, The Great Is An Attribute Of Youth And The Process Of Aging Is The Process Of That Expectations' Gradual Extinction. One Does Not Have To Let It Happen. But That Fire Dies For Lack Of Fuel, Under The Gray Weight Of Disappointments.