Life Is Pain, So Live

Of All Men The Drunkard Is The Foulest. The Thief When He Is Not Stealing Is Like Another. The Extortioner Does Not Practice In The Home. The Murderer When He Is At Home Can Wash His Hands. But The Drunkard Stinks And Vomits In This Own Bed And Dissolves His Organs In Alcohol.

There Is Never Any Ending To Paris And The Memory Of Each Person Who Has Lived In It Differs From That Of Any Other. We Always Returned To It No Matter Who We Were Or How It Was Changed Or With What Difficulties, Or Ease, It Could Be Reached. Paris Was Always Worth It And You Received Return For Whatever You Brought To It. But This Is How Paris Was In The Early Days When We Were Very Poor And Very Happy.

It Is One Thing To Be In The Proximity Of Death, To Know More Or Less What She Is, And It Is Quite Another Thing To Seek Her.

Critics Are Men Who Watch A Battle From A High Place Then Come Down And Shoot The Survivors.

When We Came Back To Paris It Was Clear And Cold And Lovely.