It's Raining My Soul, It's Raining, But

People Quickly Grow Accustomed To Being The Slaves Of Mystery.

When Man Wanted To Make A Machine That Would Walk He Created The Wheel, Which Does Not Resemble A Leg.

Memories Are Hunting Horns Whose Sound Dies On The Wind.

Without Poets, Without Artists, Men Would Soon Weary Of Nature's Monotony. The Sublime Idea Men Have Of The Universe Would Collapse With Dizzying Speed. The Order Which We Find In Nature, And Which Is Only An Effect Of Art, Would At Once Vanish. Everything Would Break Up In Chaos. There Would Be No Seasons, No Civilization, No Thought, No Humanity; Even Life Would Give Way, And The Impotent Void Would Reign Everywhere.

To Insist On Purity Is To Baptize Instinct, To Humanize Art, And To Deify Personality.