Le Bonheur Engloutit Nos Forces, Comme Le

You're A Fine Fastidious Young Man, As Proud As A Lion, As Gentle As A Girl. You'd Make A Good Catch For The Devil.

Music Is Of Two Kinds: One Petty, Poor, Second-rate, Never Varying, Its Base The Hundred Or So Phrasings Which All Musicians Understand, A Babbling Which Is More Or Less Pleasant, The Life That Most Composers Live.

The Day Will Dawn When Europe Will Believe Only In The Man Who Tramples Her Underfoot.

This Coffee Falls Into Your Stomach, And Straightway There Is A General Commotion. Ideas Begin To Move Like The Battalions Of The Grand Army Of The Battlefield, And The Battle Takes Place. Things Remembered Arrive At Full Gallop, Ensuing To The Wind. The Light Cavalry Of Comparisons Deliver A Magnificent Deploying Charge, The Artillery Of Logic Hurry Up With Their Train And Ammunition, The Shafts Of With Start Up Like Sharpshooters. Similes Arise, The Paper Is Covered With Ink; For The Struggle Commences And Is Concluded With Torrents Of Black Water, Just As A Battle With Powder.

Neither The Passions Not Justice Nor Politics Nor The Great Social Forces Ever Consider The Victims They Strike.