People Hasten To Judge In Order Not

Once One's Up Against It, The Precise Manner Of One's Death Has Obviously Small Importance.

If One Could Only Say Just Once: 'this Is Clear', All Would Be Saved

In The Past, The Poverty They Shared Had A Certain Sweetness About It. When The End Of The Day Came And They Would Eat Their Dinner In Silence With The Oil Lamp Between Them, There Was A Secret Joy In Such Simplicity, Such Retrenchment.

For There Is Merely Bad Luck In Not Being Loved; There Is Misfortune In Not Loving.

May Heaven Protect Us, Cher Monsieur, From Being Set On A Pedestal By Our Friends!!!