No Matter How The Sun Shone, The

How Hard It Is, How Bitter It Is To Become A Man!

And Never Have I Felt So Deeply At One And The Same Time So Detached From Myself And So Present In The World.

If The Descent Is Thus Sometimes Performed In Sorrow, It Can Also Take Place In Joy.

At The Heart Of All Beauty Lies Something Inhuman, And These Hills, The Softness Of The Sky, The Outline Of These Trees At This Very Minute Lose The Illusory Meaning With Which We Had Clothed Them, Henceforth More Remote Than A Lost Paradise . . . That Denseness And That Strangeness Of The World Is Absurd.

For Rich People, The Sky Is Just An Extra, A Gift Of Nature. The Poor, On The Other Hand, Can See It As It Is, A Gift Of Infinite Grace.