When You Are Forty, Half Of You

Chacun De Nous A Un Jour, Plus Ou Moins Triste, Plus Ou Moins Lointain, O U' Il Doit Enfin Accepter D'e" Tre Un Homme. There Will Come A Day For Each Of Us, More Or Less Sad, More Or Less Distant, Whenwe Must Accept The Condition Of Being Human.

We Poison Our Lives With Fear Of Burglary And Shipwreck, And, Ask Anyone, The House Is Never Burgled, And The Ship Never Goes Down.

There Will Always Be A Lost Dog Somewhere That Will Keep Me From Being Happy.

The Object Of Art Is To Give Life Shape.

Life Is Very Nice, But It Lacks Form. It's The Aim Of Art To Give It Some.