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Messieurs, il faut aimer son aigle, l'aimer pour qu'il devienne beau ; car c'est parce qu'il sera beau que vous devez aimer votre aigle...

How would one tell a story about happiness? One can only tell of the origins of happiness and its destruction.

I do not want to recollect. I should be afraid of preventing the future and of allowing the past to encroach on me. It is out of the utter forgetfulness of yesterday that I create every new hour's freshness. It is never enough for me to have been happy. I do not believe in dead things and cannot distinguish between being no more and never having been.