I Adore Chicago. It Is The Pulse

Your Words Are My Food, Your Breath My Wine. You Are Everything To Me.

The Theatre Is The Involuntary Reflex Of The Ideas Of The Crowd.

What Matters Poverty? What Matters Anything To Him Who Is Enamoured Of Our Art? Does He Not Carry In Himself Every Joy And Every Beauty?

We Must Live For The Few Who Know And Appreciate Us, Who Judge And Absolve Us, And For Whom We Have The Same Affection And Indulgence. The Rest I Look Upon As A Mere Crowd, Lively Or Sad, Loyal Or Corrupt, From Whom There Is Nothing To Be Expected But Fleeting Emotions, Either Pleasant Or Unpleasant, Which Leave No Trace Behind Them.

Alas, We Are The Victims Of Advertisement. Those Who Taste The Joys And Sorrows Of Fame When They Have Passed Forty, Know How To Look After Themselves. They Know What Is Concealed Beneath The Flowers, And What The Gossip, The Calumnies, And The Praise Are Worth. But As For Those Who Win Fame When They Are Twenty, They Know Nothing, And Are Caught Up In The Whirlpool.