The Man Who Is Master Of His

The Refractory Pupil Of Socrates, Aristippus The Cyrene, Who Believed Happiness To Be The Sum Of Particular Pleasures And Golden Moments And Not, As Epicurus, A Prolonged Intermediary State Between Ecstasy And Pain.

In My Religion, There Would Be No Exclusive Doctrine; All Would Be Love, Poetry, And Doubt.

Civilization Is An Active Deposit Which Is Formed By The Combustion Of The Present With The Past. Neither In Countries Without A Present Nor In Those Without A Past Is It To Be Encountered. Proust In Venice, Matisse's Birdcages Overlooking The Flower Market At Nice, Gide On The Seventeenth-century Quais Of Toulon, Lorca In Granada, Picasso By Saint-germain-des-prés: There Lies Civilization And For Me It Can Exist Only Under Those Liberal Regimes In Which The Present Is Alive And Therefore Capable Of Assimilating The Past.

It Is Only In The Country That We Can Get To Know A Person Or A Book.

A Life Based On Reason Will Always Require To Be Balanced By An Occasional Bout Of Violent And Irrational Emotion, For Instinctual Drives Must Be Satisfied