There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman. - Émile Zola

The ground was trembling under their feet, and they clung to the resolutions made in their calmer hours so as not to sink into the abyss.

This sounded the death knell of small family businesses, soon to be followed by the disappearance of the individual entrepreneur, gobbled up one by one by the increasingly hungry ogre of capitalism, and drowned by the rising tide of large companies.

His remorse was purely physical. Only his body, strained nerves, and cowering flesh were afraid of the drowned man. Conscience played no part in his terrors, and he had not the slightest regret about killing Camille; in his moments of calm, when the spectre was not present, he would have committed the murder over again had he thought his interests required it.