Let us dig our furrow in the fields of the commonplace.

History records the names of royal bastards, but cannot tell us the origin of wheat.

All failed lovers rewrite the script, as if one sexual detail or another might have tipped the balance of pain into destiny, either tragic or miraculous. History record the names of royal bastards, but cannot tell us the origin of wheat.

The common people have no history: persecuted by the present, they cannot think of preserving the memory of the past.

Without feeling abashed by my ignorance, I confess that I am absolutely unable to say. In the absence of an appearance of learning, my answer has at least one merit, that of perfect sincerity.

Seek those who find your road agreeable, your personality and mind stimulating, your philosophy acceptable, and your experience helpful. Let those who do not, seek their own kind.

We have within us, from the start, that which will distinguish us from the vulgar herd.