Words Are Clamor-filled Shells. There's Many A

Man Is A Creation Of Desire, Not A Creation Of Need.

To Go Upstairs In The Word House Is To Withdraw Step By Step; While To Go Down To The Cellar Is To Dream.

We Comfort Ourselves By Reliving Memories Of Protection. Something Closed Must Retain Our Memories, While Leaving Them Their Original Value As Images. Memories Of The Outside World Will Never Have The Same Tonality As Those Of Home And, By Recalling These Memories, We Add To Our Store Of Dreams; We Are Never Real Historians, But Always Near Poets, And Our Emotion Is Perhaps Nothing But An Expression Of A Poetry That Was Lost.

This Word "description" May Be Disconcerting When Used To Refer To What Is Generally Called A Translation. But When One Wishes To Render A Verbal Creation (as Opposed To A Didactic Statement) From One Language To Another, He Is Confronted With Two Equally Unsatisfactory Choices. He May, According To His Talents, Elaborate A Similar, But Never Identical Creation, Or He May Describe That Creation As Completely As Possible In His Own Language.

Childhood Knows Unhappiness Through Men. In Solitude, It Can Relax Its Aches. When The Human World Leaves Him In Peace, The Child Feels Like The Son Of The Cosmos.