But, uncle, isn’t it possible to make other songs, new songs?” “Why make them? There are enough for everything. There are songs for when you are sad,… - Romain Rolland

Մարդկային ամբողջ լեզուն, մարդկային բովանդակ իմաստությունը միայն ավտոմատ տիկնիկային թատրոնի խաղ է իրականության մահասարսուռ լույսի տակ, շլացում՝ ցեխից և արյունից շինված այդ թշվառ արարածների, որոնք անօգուտ ճգնում են պահպանել այն կյանքը, որը ժամ առ ժամ նեխվում է:

God was not to him the impassive Creator, a Nero from his tower of brass watching the burning of the City to which he himself has set fire. God was fighting. God was suffering. Fighting and suffering with all who fight and for all who suffer. For God was Life, the drop of light fallen into the darkness, spreading out, reaching out, drinking up the night. But the night is limitless, and the Divine struggle will never cease: and none can know how it will end. It was a heroic symphony wherein the very discords clashed together and mingled and grew into a serene whole! Just as the beech-forest in silence furiously wages war, so Life carries war into the eternal peace.
The wars and the peace rang echoing through Christophe. He was like a shell wherein the ocean roars. Epic shouts passed, and trumpet calls, and tempestuous sounds borne upon sovereign rhythms. For in that sonorous soul everything took shape in sound. It sang of light. It sang of darkness, sang of life and death. It sang for those who were victorious in battle. It sang for himself who was conquered and laid low. It sang. All was song. It was nothing but song.

Es sind die vorgefaßten Meinungen, die es den Völkern so schwer machen, einander zu verstehen, und die es ihnen so leicht machen, einander zu verachten.