If One Can't Be Happy, One Must

In France That Is The One Rule, Never Make Trouble.

When The Loo Paper Gets Thicker And The Writing Paper Thinner, It's Always A Bad Sign, At Home.

Nothing About Human Beings Ever Had The Power To Move Me As A Child. Black Beauty Now ... !

An Aristocracy In A Republic Is Like A Chicken Whose Head Has Been Cut Off: It May Run About In A Lively Way, But In Fact It Is Dead.

Paris In The Early Morning Has A Cheerful, Bustling Aspect, A Promise Of Delicious Things To Come, A Positive Smell Of Coffee And Croissants, Quite Peculiar To Itself. The People Welcome A New Day As If They Were Certain Of Liking It, The Shopkeepers Pull Up Their Blinds Serene In The Expectation Of Good Trade, The Workers Go Happily To Their Work, The People Who Have Sat Up All Night In Night-clubs Go Happily To Their Rest, The Orchestra Of Motor-car Horns, Of Clanking Trams, Of Whistling Policemen Tunes Up For The Daily Symphony, And Everywhere Is Joy.