Let Us Love Winter, For It Is

I Am, Indeed, A King, Because I Know How To Rule Myself.

A High Heart Ought To Bear Calamities And Not Flee Them, Since In Bearing Them Appears The Grandeur Of The Mind And In Fleeing Them The Cowardice Of The Heart.

Anger Represents A Certain Power, When A Great Mind, Prevented From Executing Its Own Generous Desires, Is Moved By It.

And There Is Quite A Different Sort Of Conversation Around A Fire Than There Is In The Shadow Of A Beech Tree.... Four Dry Logs Have In Them All The Circumstance Necessary To A Conversation Of Four Or Five Hours, With Chestnuts On The Plate And A Jug Of Wine Between The Legs. Yes, Let Us Love Winter, For It Is The Spring Of Genius.

I Am A Free Man. I Do Not Need To Copy Petrarca Or Boccaccio. My Own Genius Is Enough. Let Others Worry Themselves About Style, And So Cease To Be Themselves. Without A Master, Without A Model, Without A Guide, I Go To Work And Earn My Living, My Well-being And My Fame.