Virtually All Men Of Action Incline To

Priests, Magistrates And Ladies Never Quite Take Off Their Gowns.

To Feel, To Love, To Suffer, To Devote Herself, Will Always Be The Text Of The Life Of Woman.

No Hawk Swooping Down Upon His Prey, No Stag Improvising New Detours By Which To Trick The Huntsman, No Dog Scenting Game From Afar Is Comparable In Speed To The Celerity Of A Salesman When He Gets Wind A Deal, To His Skill In Tripping Up Or Forestalling A Rival, And To The Art With Which He Sniffs Out And Discovers A Possible Sale.

All Poetry Like Every Work Of Art Proceeds From A Swift Vision Of Things.

With Every One, The Expectation Of A Misfortune Constitutes A Dreadful, Punishment. Suffering Then Assumes The Proportions Of The Unknown, Which Is The Soul's Infinite.