I Am A Man For Whom The

What I Write Is Not For Little Girls.

Sometimes He Will Sit On The Carpet In Front Of You, Looking At You With Eyes So Melting, So Caressing And So Human, That They Almost Frighten You, For It Is Impossible To Believe That A Soul Is Not There.

[a Cat] Will Make Itself The Companion Of Your Hours Of Work, Of Loneliness, Or Of Sadness.

I Was Born To Travel And Write Verse.

The Years I Have Squandered In Puerile Excitement, In Going Hither And Thither, In Seeking To Force Nature And Time, I Ought To Have Spent In Solitude And Meditation, In Endeavoring To Make Myself Worthy Of Being Loved.