The True Artist Can Only Labor Con

Love Is Like A Tree: It Grows By Itself, Roots Itself Deeply In Our Being And Continues To Flourish Over A Heart In Ruin. The Inexplicable Fact Is That The Blinder It Is, The More Tenacious It Is. It Is Never Stronger Than When It Is Completely Unreasonable.

Never Had The Sky Been More Studded With Stars And More Charming, The Trees More Trembling, The Odor Of The Grass More Penetrating; Never Had The Birds Fallen Asleep Among The Leaves With A Sweeter Noise; Never Had All The Harmonies Of Universal Serenity Responded More Thoroughly To The Inward Music Of Love; Never Had Marius Been More Captivated, More Happy, More Ecstatic.

Out Milky Way Is The Dwelling; The Nebulae Are The City.

The Parisian Is To The French What The Athenian Was To The Greeks: No One Sleeps Better Than He, No One Is More Openly Frivolous And Idle, No One Appears More Heedless. But This Is Misleading. He Is Given To Every Kind Of Listlessness, But When There Is Glory To Be Won He May Be Inspired With Every Kind Of Fury. Give Him A Pike And He Will Enact The Tenth Of August, A Musket And You Have Austerlitz. He Was The Springboard Of Napoleon And The Mainstay Of Danton. At The Cry Of "la Patrie" He Enrols, And At The Call Of Liberty He Tears Up The Pavements. Beware Of Him!

Dreaming Is Happiness. Waiting Is Life.