We Do Not Die Of Anguish, We

Vanity Is The Most Despotic And Iniquitous Of Masters, And I Can Never Be The Slave Of My Own Vices.

I Love Everything That Makes Up A Milieu, The Rolling Of The Carriages And The Noise Of The Workmen In Paris, The Cries Of A Thousand Birds In The Country, The Movement Of The Ships On The Waters. I Love Also Absolute, Profound Silence, And, In Short, I Love Everything That Is Around Me, No Matter Where I Am.

It Seems To Me That The Earth Belongs To God Who Made It And Entrusted It To Men As A Perpetual Home. But It Cannot Have Been Part Of His Plan That Some Men Should Be Ill With Overfeeding And That Others Should Die Of Starvation. No Matter What Anyone Can Say They Cannot Prevent Me From Feeling Sad And Angry When I See A Beggar Crying At A Rich Man's Door.

Art For Art's Sake Is An Empty Phrase. Art For The Sake Of Truth, Art For The Sake Of The Good And The Beautiful, That Is The Faith I Am Searching For.

If They Are Ignorant, They Are Despised, If Learned, Mocked. In Love They Are Reduced To The Status Of Courtesans. As Wives They Are Treated More As Servants Than As Companions. Men Do Not Love Them: They Make Use Of Them, They Exploit Them, And Expect, In That Way, To Make Them Subject To The Law Of Fidelity.