plant it It will sprout But forget about the rustic festivities For the explosive word falls harmlessly eternal through the compact generations - Jean Cocteau

Last night I suffered so much that there was nothing but my pain to distract me from my pain. I had to make it my sole diversion and with good reason. It had thus decreed. It attacked at every point. Then it distributed its troops. It encamped. It so manoeuvred that it was no longer intolerable at any one of its positions, but tolerable at them all. That is to say that the intolerable being distributed, it was this no longer, except as a whole. It was something both tolerable and intolerable. The organ that breaks down and the final chord that goes on for ever.

Emotion resulting from a work of art is only of value when it is not obtained by sentimental blackmail.

Il y a une parte de vérité qui sort de nous que ce n'est pas le rêve, ce n'est pas la rêverie.
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C'est notre vrai moi, il est caché dans les ténèbres, il nous donne désordre....nous voulons travailler sans lui et est alors que nous commettons nos plus graves erreurs.