Art Speaks Only To The Mind, Whereas

I Have No Enthusiasm For Nature Which The Slightest Chill Will Not Instantly Destroy.

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.

One Wastes So Much Time, One Is So Prodigal Of Life, At Twenty! Our Days Of Winter Count For Double. That Is The Compensation Of The Old.

You May Impose Silence Upon Me, But You Can Not Prevent Me From Thinking.

No Religion Can Be Built On Force.