People Quickly Grow Accustomed To Being The

Geometry Is To The Plastic Arts What Grammar Is To The Art Of The Writer.

One Can't Carry One's Father's Corpse About Everywhere.

Without Poets, Without Artists... Everything Would Fall Apart Into Chaos. There Would Be No More Seasons, No More Civilizations, No More Thought, No More Humanity, No More Life Even; And Impotent Darkness Would Reign Forever. Poets And Artists Together Determine The Features Of Their Age, And The Future Meekly Conforms To Their Edit.

Come To The Edge.' 'we Can't. We're Afraid.' 'come To The Edge.' 'we Can't. We Will Fall!' 'come To The Edge.' And They Came. And He Pushed Them. And They Flew.

Vienne La Nuit Sonne L'heure Les Jours S'en Vont Je Demeure