Our Desires Cut Across One Another, And

She's Got Feet Like Boats, Whiskers Like An American, And Her Undies Are Filthy.

And So When Studying Faces, We Do Indeed Measure Them, But As Painters, Not As Surveyors.

On Devient Moral De' S Qu'on Est Malheureux. We Become Moral Once We Are Miserable.

At The Heart Of Our Friendly Or Purely Social Relations, There Lurks A Hostility Momentarily Cured But Recurring By Fits And Starts.

When We Have Passed A Certain Age, The Soul Of The Child That We Were And The Souls Of The Dead From Whom We Sprang Come And Shower Upon Us Their Riches And Their Spells, Asking To Be Allowed To Contribute To The New Emotions Which We Feel And In Which, Erasing Their Former Image, We Recast Them In An Original Creation.