It Is Raining Bombs On The House

One Composition Is Meagre, Though It Has Many Figures; Another Is Rich, Though It Has Few.

When One Compares The Talents One Has With Those Of A Leibniz , One Is Tempted To Throw Away One's Books And Go Die Quietly In The Dark Of Some Forgotten Corner.

If Your Little Savage Were Left To Himself And Be Allowed To Retain All His Ignorance, He Would In Time Join The Infant's Reasoning To The Grown Man's Passion, He Would Strangle His Father And Sleep With His Mother.

L'homme Est Ne Pour La Socie Te ; Se Parez-le, Isolez-le, Ses Ide Es Se De Suniront, Son Caracte' Re Se Tournera, Mille Affections Ridicules S'e Le' Veront Dans Son Coeur; Des 274 Pense Es Extravagantes Germeront Dans Son Esprit, Comme Les Ronces Dans Une Terre Sauvage. Man Is Born To Live In Society: Separate Him, Isolate Him, And His Ideas Disintegrate, His Character Changes, A Thousand Ridiculous Affectations Rise Up In His Heart; Extreme Thoughts Take Hold In His Mind, Like The Brambles In A Wild Field.

Those Authors Into Whose Hands Nature Has Placed A Magic Wand, With Which They No Sooner Touch Us Than We Forget The Unhappiness In Life, Than The Darkness Leaves Our Soul, And We Are Reconciled To Existence, Should Be Placed Among The Benefactors Of The Human Race.