Nos Beaux Sentiments Ne Sont-ils Pas Les

To Stroll Is A Science, It Is The Gastronomy Of The Eye. To Walk Is To Vegetate, To Stroll Is To Live.... To Stroll Is To Enjoy, It Is To Assume A Mind-set, It Is To Admire The Sublime Pictures Of Unhappiness, Of Love, Of Joy, Of Graceful Or Grotesque Portraits; It Is To Plunge One's Vision To The Depths Of A Thousand Existences: Young, It Is To Desire Everything; Old, It Is To Live The Life Of The Young, To Marry Their Passions.

Holding This Book In Your Hand, Sinking Back In Your Soft Armchair, You Will Say To Yourself: Perhaps It Will Amuse Me. And After You Have Read This Story Of Great Misfortunes, You Will No Doubt Dine Well, Blaming The Author For Your Own Insensitivity, Accusing Him Of Wild Exaggeration And Flights Of Fancy. But Rest Assured: This Tragedy Is Not A Fiction. All Is True.

The Greater A Man's Talents, The More Marked His Idiosyncracies. Yet In The Provinces Originality Is Considered Perilously Close To Lunacy.

I Can No Longer Think Of Anything But You. In Spite Of Myself, My Imagination Carries Me To You. I Grasp You, I Kiss You, I Caress You, A Thousand Of The Most Amorous Caresses Take Possession Of Me.

Children, Dear And Loving Children, Can Alone Console A Woman For The Loss Of Her Beauty.