However Incoherent A Human Existence May Be,

What I Say Is That The Supreme And Singular Joy Of Making Love Resides In The Certainty Of Doing Evil.

Music Fathoms The Sky.

By Nature, By Necessity Itself, [primitive Man] Is Encyclopedic, While Civilized Man Finds Himself Confined In The Infinitely Small Regions Of Specialization.

Who Would Dare Assign To Art The Sterile Function Of Imitating Nature?

Nations, Like Families, Have Great Men Only In Spite Of Themselves.