Of late years (perhaps as a result of our political changes) art has borrowed from history more than ever.

What is a great life but a youthful intention carried out in maturity?

Do you know that charming part of our country which has been called the garden of France - that spot where, amid verdant plains watered by wide streams, one inhales the purest air of heaven?

Just as we descend into our consciences to judge of actions which our minds can not weigh, can we not also search in ourselves for the feeling which gives birth to forms of thought, always vague and cloudy?

France, for example, loves at the same time history and the drama, because the one explores the vast destinies of humanity, and the other the individual lot of man.

Greatness is the dream of youth realized in old age.

Hope is the biggest of our foolish things.