Vienne La Nuit Sonne L'heure Les Jours

Memories Are Hunting Horns Whose Sound Dies On The Wind.

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.

Without Artists, The Order Which We Find In Nature, And Which Is Only An Effect Of Art, Would At Once Vanish.

Twentieth Pupil Of The Centuries Knows Its Stuff And Bird-changed This Century Like Jesus Climbs The Sky.