Nations, Like Families, Have Great

I Felt Passing Over Me The Wind Of The Wing Of Madness.

Etre Un Homme Utile M'a Paru Toujours Quelque Chose De Bien Hideux. To Be Useful Has Always Seemed To Me Quite Hideous.

Progress, This Great Heresy Of Decay.

Wine Transforms Moles Into Eagles.

I Sit In The Sky Like A Sphinx Misunderstood; My Heart Of Snow Is Wed To The Whiteness Of Swans; I Hate The Movement That Displaces The Rigid Lines, With Lips Untaught Neither Tears Nor Laughter Do I Know.