History Is An Endless Repetition Of The

How Grudging Memory Is, And How Bitterly She Clutches The Raw Material Of Her Daily Work.

All Culture Corrupts, But French Culture Corrupts Absolutely.

The Artist's Work Constitutes The Only Satisfactory Relationship He Can Have With His Fellow Men Since He Seeks His Real Friends Among The Dead And The Unborn.

These Are The Moments Which Are Not Calculable, And Cannot Be Assessed In Words; They Live On In The Solution Of Memory, Like Wonderful Creatures, Unique Of Their Own Kind, Dredged Up From The Floors Of Some Unexplored Ocean.

Every Man Is Made Of Clay And Diamond, And No Woman Can Nourish Both.