No Human Being Can Control Love, And

We Do Not Precisely Enjoy Liberty At The Figaro. M. De Latouche, Our Worthy Director (ah! You Should Know The Fellow), Is Always Hanging Over Us, Cutting, Pruning, Right Or Wrong, Imposing Upon Us His Whims, His Aberrations, His Fancies, And We Have To Write As He Bids.

Admiration And Familiarity Are Strangers.

Nature Has Not Changed. The Night Is Still Unsullied, The Stars Still Twinkle, And The Wild Thyme Smells As Sweetly Now As It Did Then ... We May Be Afflicted And Unhappy, But No One Can Take From Us The Sweet Delight Which Is Nature's Gift To Those Who Love Her And Her Poetry.

Living For Oneself Is A Bad Thing. The Keenest Intellectual Pleasure Comes From Being Able To Return To The Self After Being Absent From It For A Spell. But Living All The Time Inside The Self, That Most Tyrannical, Demanding And Capricious Of Companions - No, One Shouldn't Do It.

Art Belongs To All Times And To All Countries; Its Special Benefit Is Precisely To Be Still Living When Everything Else Seems Dying; That Is Why Providence Shields It From Too Personal Or Too General Passions, And Grants It A Patient And Persevering Organization, Durable Sensibility, And The Contemplative Sense In Which Lies Invincible Faith.