The True Masters Of The Art Of

We Have Found Other Terms Far Less Vague Than The Old Ones To Designate The Same Complaints. It's A Great Advance Linguistically.

Life Is Very Nice, But It Has No Shape. The Object Of Art Is Actually To Give It Some And To Do It By Every Artifice Possible-truer Than The Truth.

All Prisons Are Brimming Over With Innocence. It Is Those Who Cram Their Fellows Into Them, In The Name Of Empty Ideas, Who Are The Only Guilty Ones.

Love Is, Above All, The Gift Of Oneself.

Listen, My Friend, There Are Two Races Of Beings. The Masses Teeming And Happy - Common Clay, If You Like - Eating, Breeding, Working, Counting Their Pennies; People Who Just Live; Ordinary People; People You Can't Imagine Dead. And Then There Are The Others - The Noble Ones, The Heroes. The Ones You Can Quite Well Imagine Lying Shot, Pale And Tragic; One Minute Triumphant With A Guard Of Honor, And The Next Being Marched Away Between Two Gendarmes