Hadrian Quotes

Of all our games, love's play is the only one which threatens to unsettle the soul...

You don’t win battles with hate. Anger and hate can make you brave, make you strong, but they also make you stupid. You end up tripping over your own two feet.” (Hadrian)

Our great mistake is to try to exact from each person virtues which he does not possess, and to neglect the cultivation of those which he has.

The true birthplace is that wherein for the first time one looks intelligently upon oneself; my first homelands have been books, and to a lesser degree schools.

Aren’t you going to say, I told you so?” Hadrian whispered. “What would be the point in that?” “Oh, so you’re saying that you’re going to hang on to this and throw it at me at some future, more personally beneficial moment?” “I don’t see the point in wasting it now, do you?

As they climbed into their saddles, Myron bowed his head and muttered a soft prayer. “There,” Hadrian told Royce, “we’ve got Maribor on our side. Now you can relax.” “Actually,” Myron said sheepishly, “I was praying for the horses. But I will pray for you as well,” he added hastily.

Nothing is slower than the true birth of a man.

Hadrian shook his head and sighed. “Why do you have to make everything so difficult? They’re probably not bad people—just poor. You know, taking what they need to buy a loaf of bread to feed their family. Can you begrudge them that? Winter is coming and times are hard.” He nodded his head in the direction of the thieves. “Right?” “I ain’t got no family,” flat-nose replied. “I spend most of my coin on drink.” “You’re not helping,” Hadrian said.

He had reached that moment in life, different for each one of us, when a man abandonds himself to his demon or to his genius, following a mysterious law which bids him either to destroy or outdo himself.

Royce nodded. “Invest in crossbows. Next time stay hidden and just put a couple bolts into each of your target’s chests. All this talking is just stupid.” “Royce!” Hadrian admonished. “What? You’re always saying I should be nicer to people. I’m trying to be helpful.

Will nodded toward Hadrian. “Look at the swords he’s carrying. A man wearing one—maybe he knows how to use it, maybe not. A man carries two—he probably don’t know nothing about swords, but he wants you to think he does. But a man carrying three swords—that’s a lot of weight. No one’s gonna haul that much steel around unless he makes a living using them.

So,” Royce said, “you want us to escape from this prison, kidnap the king, cross the countryside with him in tow while dodging soldiers who I assume might not accept our side of the story, and go to another secret prison so that he can visit an inmate?” Arista did not appear amused. “Either that, or you can be tortured to death in four hours.” “Sounds like a really good plan to me,” Hadrian declared.“Royce?” “I like any plan where I don’t die a horrible death.

You're not going to charge us for the tower, I hope," Hadrian said. "But if you are, it was Royce's fault and should come out of his share.

There are books which one should not attempt before having passed the age of forty.

What’s going on?” Royce asked as throngs of people suddenly moved toward him from the field and the castle interior. “I mentioned that you saw the thing and now they want to know what it looks like,” Hadrian explained. “What did you think? They were coming to lynch you?” He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a glass-half-empty kinda guy.” “Half empty?” Hadrian chuckled. “Was there ever any drink in that glass?

If this keeps up, we’re going to own Melengar,” Hadrian mentioned. “What’s this we stuff?” Royce asked. “You’re retired, remember?” “Oh? So you’ll be leading the Nationalist advance, will you?” “Sixty-forty?” Royce proposed.

You can go back to blacksmithing in Hintindar and live a quiet happy life. Do me a favor and marry some pretty farm girl and train your son to beat the crap out of imperial knights." "Sure," Hadrian told him. "And with any luck he'll make friends with a cynical burglar who'll do nothing but torment him.

Where are you from, Hadrian?” “Hintindar originally—a little village south of here in Rhenydd.” “Originally? What’s that supposed to mean? You got yourself born someplace else recently?

You think he’s still alive?” Royce asked, nodding his head toward Alric. “Sure,” Hadrian replied without bothering to look. “He’s probably sleeping. Why do you ask?” “I was just pondering something. Do you think a person could smother in a wet potato bag?” Hadrian lifted his head and looked over at the motionless prince. “I really hadn’t thought about it until now.

Have you ever been in love, Hadrian?” “I’m not sure. How do you tell?” “Love? Why, it’s like coming home.” Hadrian considered the comment. “What are you thinking?” Bulard asked. Hadrian shook his head. “Nothing.” “Yes, you were. What? You can tell me. I’m an excellent repository for secrets. I’ll likely forget, but if I don’t, well, I’m an old man in a remote jungle. I’m sure to die before I can repeat anything.” Hadrian smiled, then shrugged. “I was just thinking about the rain.

Little soul, gentle and drifting, guest and companion of my body, now you will dwell below in pallid places, stark and bare; there you will abandon your play of yore. But one moment still, let us gaze together on these familiar shores, on these objects which doubtless we shall not see again....Let us try, if we can, to enter into death with open eyes...

I am not sure that the discovery of love is necessarily more exquisite than the discovery of poetry.

So you have been paying attention." "I'm not as stupid as you think I am." "You have no idea how stupid I think you are, and honestly, we don't have time for that conversation." Hadrian scowled.

The memory of most men is an abandoned cemetery where lie, unsung and unhonored, the dead whom they have ceased to cherish. Any lasting grief is reproof to their neglect.

Notre grande erreur est d'essayer d'obtenir de chacun en particulier les vertus qu'il n'a pas, et de négliger de cultiver celles qu'il possède.

Hadrian drew two swords from his sides in a single elegant motion. He flipped one around letting it spin against his palm once. “Need to get a new grip on this one. It’s starting to fray again.” He looked at Will. “Shall we get on with this? I believe you were about to rob us.

I knew that good like bad becomes a routine, that the temporary tends to endure, that what is external permeates to the inside, and that the mask, given time, comes to be the face itself.

And why would she do that?” Hadrian shouted to the upper story. “She told you herself. Farlan was going to have the sheriff investigate.” “Yeah, investigate you!” “But I didn’t kill anyone. Well, not anyone in Vernes … well, not recently.

I need your help.” Royce looked up as if his head weighed a hundred pounds, his eyes red, his face ashen. He waited. “One last job,” Hadrian told him, then added, “I promise.” “Is it dangerous?” “Very.” “Is there a good chance I’ll get killed?” “Odds are definitely in favor of that.” Royce nodded, looked down at the scarf in his lap, and replied, “Okay.

The written word has taught me to listen to the human voice, much as the great unchanging statues have taught me to appreciate bodily motions. On the other hand, but more slowly, life has thrown light for me on the meaning of books.

Royce looked back down at the stream below. "She doesn't even know me. What if she doesn't like me? Few people do." "She might not at first. Maribor knows I didn't. But you have a way of growing on a person." He smiled. "You know, like lichen or mold.

You can’t kill Myron, Royce,” Hadrian said, rapidly pulling the monk away as if he had found a child playing with a wild bear. “It would be like killing a puppy.

My name is Hadrian Blackwater.” “Congratulations.” “Uh … what’s yours?” “Leave me alone.

Animula vagula blandula Hospes comesque corporis Quae nunc abibis? In Loca Pallidula rigida nudula nec ut soles dabis Iocos. Little soul, you charming little wanderer, my body's guest and partner, where are you off to now? somewhere without colour, savage and bare; You'll crack no more of your jokes once you're there.

Hadrian reeked of death. It wasn’t the sort of stench others could smell or that water could wash, but it lingered on him like sweat-saturated pores after a long night of drinking.

The claw slipped again. It came off the edge of the stone and Hadrian felt his stomach rise as he fell. He dropped less than two stories and landed in a thick pile of straw, but it still hurt. With the wind knocked from him, he lay staring up at the sky and the wall. Royce’s shadow crossed his face. “That was pathetic.” “You’re enjoying this a little too much for me to think you’re honestly trying to help.” “Trust me. I want you to improve. I want you to fall from much higher up.

Royce turned to Hadrian. “It’s supposed to make them look tough, but all it really does is make it easy to identify them as thieves for the rest of their lives. Painting a red hand on everyone is pretty stupid when you think about it.” “That tattoo is supposed to be a hand?” Hadrian asked. “I thought it was a little red chicken. But now that you mention it, a hand does make more sense.” Royce looked back at Will and tilted his head to one side. “Does kinda look like a chicken.

I was willing to yield to nostalgia, that melancholy residue of desire.

Royce hated keeping secrets from Hadrian, and it weighed heavily on his conscience, which was amazing, because he had never known he had one. Royce defined right and wrong by the moment. Right was what was best for him—wrong was everything else.

Any chance he’s turned a new leaf and taken up sailing for real?” “About as likely as me doing it.” Hadrian eyed Royce for a heartbeat. “I put him at the top of the list.

Been meddling, have you?” Royce asked, looking around at the hive of activity. “You must admit they didn’t have much in the way of a defense plan,” Hadrian said, pausing to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Royce smiled at him. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?

You’re too visible, Albert,” Hadrian explained. “Can’t afford to have our favorite noble hauled to some dungeon where they cut off your eyelids or pull off your fingernails until you tell them what we’re up to.” “But if they torture me, and I don’t know the plan, how will I save myself?” “I’m sure they’ll believe you after the fourth nail or so,” Royce said with a wicked grin.

That mysterious play which extends from love of a body to a love of an entire person has seemed to me noble enough to consecrate to it one part of my life.

Hadrian leapt to his feet. Royce was already up. “Don’t bother,” Esrahaddon told them. “She’s dead, and there’s nothing you can do. The monster cannot be harmed by your weapons. It—” The two were out the door.

You broke into Drumindor?" Wyatt looked impressed. "I thought that was impossible." "Just about," Royce answered, "and we didn't get paid enough for the trouble it gave me." Hadrian snorted, "You? I was the one who nearly died making that leap. You just hung there and laughed.

There are still eight of us,” Guy pointed out. “Not exactly an even fight.” “I was thinking the same thing,” Mauvin said. “Sadly, there’s no one else here we can ask to join your side.” Guy looked at Mauvin, then Hadrian, for a long moment as the men glared across the ash at each other. Then he nodded and lowered his blade. “Well, I can see I’ll have to report your misconduct to the archbishop.” “Go ahead,” Hadrian said. “His body is buried with the rest of them just down the hillside.

Laws change more slowly than custom, and though dangerous when they fall behind the times are more dangerous still when the presume to anticipate custom.

For my part I have sought liberty more than power, and power only because it can lead to freedom. What interested me was not a philosophy of the free man (all who try that have proved tiresome), but a technique: I hoped to discover the hinge where our will meets and moves with destiny, and where discipline strengthens, instead of restraining, our nature.

Oh my,' Myron said to Hadrian as he twisted to get a better view. 'I don't even think of horses when I look at her.

Ce matin, l'idée m'est venue pour la première fois que mon corps, ce fidèle compagnon, cet ami plus sûr, mieux connu de moi que mon âme, n'est qu'un monstre sournois qui finira par dévorer son maître.

The founding of libraries was like constructing more public granaries, amassing reserves against a spiritual winter which by certain signs, in spite of myself, I see ahead…

the lover who leaves reason in control does not follow his god to the end.

And you? Did you find the doorknob?” Hadrian picked up a jug and downed several swallows, drinking so quickly some of the water dripped down his chin. He poured some in his palm and rinsed his face, running his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t even get close enough to see a door.” “Well, look on the bright side”—Hadrian smiled—“at least you weren’t captured and condemned to death this time.” “That’s the bright side?” “What can I say? I’m a glass-half-full kinda guy.

The first step: Don’t be anxious. Nature controls it all. And before long you’ll be no one, nowhere—like Hadrian, like Augustus. The second step: Concentrate on what you have to do. Fix your eyes on it. Remind yourself that your task is to be a good human being; remind yourself what nature demands of people. Then do it, without hesitation, and speak the truth as you see it. But with kindness. With humility. Without hypocrisy.

The technique of a great seducer requires a facility and an indifference in passing from one object of affection to another which I could never have; however that may be, my loves have left me more often than I have left them, for I have never been able to understand how one could have enough of any beloved. The desire to count up exactly the riches which each new love brings us, and to see it change, and perhaps watch it grow old, accords ill with multiplicity of conquests.

Il vero luogo natio è quello dove per la prima volta si è posato uno sguardo consapevole su se stessi: la mia prima patria sono stati i libri.

Hadrian held the headphones close to one ear. “What is this, Eden? You’re listening to music? Stupid, crappy music?” The square-jawed man stared blankly at him. “It’s Celine Dion, sir.” “Get security up here! I want this man in irons. Prepare the Dark Hole!

Wait a minute,” Hadrian said. “Was it a beat-up brown leather notebook? About this big?” He gestured with his hands. “Yes,” the Patriarch said. Arista looked back and forth between them. “How do you know that?” “I know it because I have lived in the Crown Tower,” the Patriarch said. “And you?” Arista looked at Hadrian, who hesitated. “Ha-ha! Of course, of course. I knew it!” Cosmos DeLur chuckled and clapped his hands together in single applause while smiling at Hadrian. “Such a wonderfully delightful rumor as that had to be true. That is an exquisite accomplishment.” “You stole it?” Arista asked. “Yes, he did,” the Patriarch declared. “Actually,” Hadrian said, “Royce and I did, but we put it back the next night.

How's your foot?” Hadrian asked. “It hurts.” “He had a good hold.” “Bit right through my boot.” “Yeah, that looked painful.” “So why exactly didn't you help?” Hadrian shrugged. “It was a dog, Royce. A cute, little dog. What did you want me to do, kill an innocent little animal?” Royce tilted his head, squinting into the light of the late evening sun to focus on his friend. “Is that a joke?” “It was a puppy.” “It was not a puppy, and it was eating my foot.” “Yeah, but you were invading his home.” .... “You know, you didn't have to throw it out the window,” Hadrian said as they walked. Royce, who was still preoccupied with his foot, looked up. “What did you want me to do with it? Scratch behind the little monster’s ears as it gnawed my toes off? What if it started barking? That would have been a fine mess.” “It's a good thing there was a moat right under the window.” Royce stopped. “There was?

There you are!” he shouted at them. “Father has half the castle turned out looking for you.” “Us?” Hadrian asked. “Yes.” Fanen nodded. “He wants to see the two thieves in his chambers right away.” “You didn’t steal the silver or anything, did you, Royce?” Hadrian asked. “I would bet it has more to do with your flirting with Lenare this afternoon and threatening Mauvin just to show off,” Royce retorted. “That was your fault,” Hadrian said, jabbing his finger at him.

Water drunk more reverently still, from the hands or from the spring itself, diffuses within us the most secret salt of earth and the rain of heaven.

La mémoire de la plupart des hommes est un cimetière abandonné, où gisent sans honneurs des morts qu'ils ont cessé de chérir. Toute douleur prolongée insulte à leur oubli.

Another last-minute, good-deed job,” Royce grumbled as he stuffed supplies into his saddlebag. “True,” Hadrian said, slinging his sword belt over his shoulder, “but this is at least a paying job.” “You should have told him the real reason we saved him from Trumbul— because we wouldn’t see the hundred tenents otherwise.” “That was your reason. Besides, how often do we get to do royal contracts? If word gets around, we’ll be able to command top salaries.” “If word gets around, we’ll be hanged.

Hadrian discovered that the most fascinating thing about plummeting in total darkness wasn’t the odd sense of euphoria instilled from the free fall or the abject terror derived from anticipating sudden death, but that he had the opportunity to contemplate both.

It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Royce said as Hadrian prepared the bow. “It’s just that we’ve learned over the years that honor among nobles is usually inversely proportionate to their rank. As a result, we prefer to rely on more concrete methods for motivations—such as self-preservation. You already know we don’t want you dead, but if you have ever been riding full tilt and had a horse buckle under you, you understand that death is always a possibility, and broken bones are almost a certainty.” “There’s also the danger of missing the horse completely,” Hadrian added. “I’m a good shot, but even the best archers have bad days. So to answer your question—yes, you can control your own horse.

We lose track of everything, and of everyone, even ourselves. The facts of my father's life are less known to me than those of the life of Hadrian. My own existence, if I had to write of it, would be reconstructed by me from externals, laboriously, as if it were the life of someone else: I should have to turn to letters, and to the recollections of others, in order to clarify such uncertain memories. What is ever left but crumbled walls, or masses of shade?

It is not that I despise men. If I did I should have no right, and no reason, to try to govern.

The story-tellers and spinners of erotic tales are hardly more than butchers who hang up meat attractive to flies.

... dans tout combat entre le fanatisme et le sens commun, ce dernier a rarement le dessus.

la possibilité de jeter le masque en toutes choses est l'un des rares avantages que je trouve à vieillir

Tout bonheur est un chef-d'oeuvre: la moindre erreur le fausse, la moindre hésitation l'altère, la moindre lourder le dépare, la moindre sottise l'abêtit.

Fondare biblioteche è un pò come costruire ancora granai pubblici: ammassare riserve contro l'inverno dello spirito che da molti indizi, mio malgrado, vedo venire.

Do not mistake me. I am not yet weak enough to yield to fearful imaginings, which are almost as absurd as illusions of hope, and are certainly harder to bear. If I must deceive myself, I should prefer to stay on the side of confidence, for I shall lose no more there and shall suffer less.

Wake up, buddy,” Royce whispered, nudging him. Hadrian was damp with sweat. “About time you got here. I was starting to think you ran off and left me.” “I considered it, but the thought of Magnus as my best man kinda forced the issue. Nice haircut, by the way. It looks good on you—very knightly.

Royce took out his dagger and drove it into the table, where it stood upright. “Look at the blade. Is it bright or dark?” Hadrian narrowed his eyes suspiciously. The brilliant surface of Alverstone was dazzling as it reflected the candlelight. “Bright.” Royce nodded. “Now move your head over here and look from my perspective.” Hadrian leaned over, putting his head on the opposite side of the blade, where the shadow made it black as chimney soot. “It’s the same dagger,” Royce explained, “but from where you sat it was light while I saw it as dark. So who is right?” “Neither of us,” Hadrian said. “No,” Royce said. “That’s the mistake people always make, and they make it because they can’t grasp the truth.” “Which is?” “That we’re both right. One truth doesn’t refute another. Truth doesn’t lie in the object, but in how we see it.

And nevertheless I have loved certain of my masters, and those strangely intimate though elusive relations existing between student and teacher, and the Sirens singing somewhere within the cracked voice of him who is first to reveal a new idea. The greatest seducer was not Alcibiades, afterall, it was Socrates.

Se, per miracolo, qualche secolo venisse aggiunto ai pochi giorni che mi restano, rifarei le stesse cose, persino gli stessi errori, frequenterei gli stessi Olimpi e i medesimi Inferi.

To eat fruit is to welcome into oneself a fair living object, which is alien to us but is nourished and protected like us by earth; it is to consume a sacrifice wherein we sustain ourselves at the expense of things.

Meditation upon death does not teach one how to die; it does not make the departure more easy, but ease is not what I seek. Beloved boy, so willful and brooding, your sacrifice will have enriched not my life but my death. ... Centuries as yet unborn within the dark womb of time would pass by thousands over that tomb without restoring life to him, but likewise without adding to his death, and without changing the fact that he had been.

La vie est atroce ; nous savons cela. Mais précisément parce que j’attends peu de choses de la condition humaine, les périodes de bonheur, les progrès partiels, les efforts de recommencement, et de continuité me semblent autant de prodiges qui compensent presque l’immense masse des maux, des échecs, de l’incurie et de l’erreur.

Nailed to the beloved body like a slave to a cross, I have learned some secrets of life which are now dimmed in my memory by the operation of the same law which ordains that the convalescent, once cured, ceases to understand the mysterious truths laid bare by illness, and that the prisoner, set free, forgets his torture, or the conqueror, his triumph passed, forgets his glory.

Ce qui nous rassure du sommeil, c'est qu'on en sort, et qu'on en sort inchangé, puisqu'une interdiction bizarre nous empêche de rapporter avec nous l'exact résidu de nos songes.

I did not love less; indeed I loved more. But the weight of love, like that of an arm thrown tenderly across a chest, becomes little by little too heavy to bear.

Very slowly Royce pushed the door inward, peering through the gap. He looked left and right, then closed it once more and replaced the bolts. "What is it?" Hadrian asked. "He's right," Royce said dismally. "No one is getting through." Thranic smiled and nodded until he was beset by another series of coughs that bent him over in pain. "What is it?" Hadrian repeated. "You're not going to believe it." "What?" "There's a -- a thingy." "A what?" "You know, a thingy thing." Hadrian looked at him, puzzled. "A Gilarabrywn," Thranic said.

There were times Hadrian wondered if Royce was actually a cat that some mischievous witch had turned into a man and then lost track of. The similarities were too numerous to be coincidental. An irritatingly-superior aloof nature, fastidiousness, a habit of roaming at night, and his general propensity for solitude were all evidence.

La parola scritta m'ha insegnato ad ascoltare la voce umana, press'a poco come gli atteggiamenti maestosi e immoti delle statue m'hanno insegnato ad apprezzare i gesti degli uomini. Viceversa, con l'andar del tempo, la vita m'ha chiarito i libri.

From each art practiced in its time I derive a knowledge which compensates me in part for pleasures lost. I have supposed, and in my better moments think so still, that it would be possible in this manner to participate in the existence of everyone; such sympathy would be one of the least revocable kinds of immortality.

One night (I was eleven years old at the time) he came and shook me from my sleep and announced, with the same grumbling laconism that he would have employed to predict a good harvest to his tenants, that I should rule the world.

This Second Century appeals to me because it was the last century, for a very long period of time, in which men could think and express themselves with full freedom. As for us, we are perhaps already very far from such times as that.

It is not by blood, anyhow, that man's true continuity is established: Alexander's direct heir is Caesar, and not the frail infant born of a Persian princess in an Asiatic citadel; Epaminondas, dying without issue, was right to boast that he had Victories for daughters.

The greatest minds and the most advanced engineering went into its creation. They carved the prison out of solid rock from the face of the mountains just north of the lake. They sealed it not only with metal, stone, and wood but also with ancient and powerful enchantments. In the end, when it was finished, it was believed to be the most secure prison in the world.” “They must have had some really nasty criminals back then to go to so much trouble,” Hadrian said. “No,” Myron replied matter-of-factly, “just one.” “One?” Alric asked. “An entire prison designed to hold just one man?” “His name was Esrahaddon.

I was glad that our venerable, almost formless religions, drained of all intransigence and purged of savage rites, linked us mysteriously to the most ancient secrets of man and of earth, not forbidding us, however, a secular explanation of facts and a rational view of human conduct.

Royce saw to his horse’s needs; then, finding a suitable place, he unrolled his blanket and lay down. “I take it we’re camping here, then?” Royce said nothing, still refusing to acknowledge his existence. “You could have said, ‘We’re going to bed down here for the rest of the night.’ No, wait, you’re right, too much. How about ‘sleeping here’? Two words. Even you could manage that, right? I mean, I know you can talk. You had plenty to say back in Arcadius’s office. Couldn’t keep the words from coming out then, but no, utterly impossible to indicate in any way that we’ll be stopping here for the night.” Hadrian dismounted and began unloading Dancer. “How long were we on the road?” He paused to look up at the moon. “What? Five, six hours? Not a damn word. Getting chilly out, don’t you think, Hadrian? Moon looks like a fingernail, ain’t that right, Hadrian? That tree looks like a goddamn bear, don’t it, Hadrian? Nothing. By the way, in case you hadn’t noticed, I was attacked by a goshawk and a pig-riding dwarf that shot eggs at me with a sling. I was knocked from my horse and wrestled with the dwarf, the hawk, and the pig for what had to be half an hour. The dwarf kept smashing eggs in my face, and that ruddy pig pinned me down, licking them off. I only got away because the dwarf ran out of eggs. Then the hawk turned into a moth that became distracted by the light of the moon.” Royce shifted to his side, hood up. “Yeah, well … thank Maribor and Novron I didn’t need your help that time.” “Didn’t care for my help too much in the stable,” Royce said. “It speaks!

Stars are everything and nothing that we think they are. They are their own world, but through an act of will we make them part of ours. They are the diamonds of the gods, the lights at a stadium where angels play a midnight game of baseball. They’re fairy farts that have been set ablaze! Mostly, they’re just an untouchable beauty that’s so far away, it’s the only place safe enough to store our secret hopes and dreams. When we see a shooting start, we all make a wish. But what nobody admits is how afraid they are of actually catching something that fell from heaven. I’m not afraid to burn. ~Hadrian

But this practice [vegetarianism], in which youthful love of austerity finds charm, calls for attentions more complicated than those of culinary refinement itself; and it separates us too much from the common run of men in a function which is nearly always public, and in which either friendship or formality presides.

The short and obscene sentence of Poseidonius about the rubbing together of two small pieces of flesh, which I have seen you copy in your exercise books with the application of a good schoolboy, does no more to define the phenomenon of love than the cord touched by the finger accounts for the infinite miracle of sounds. Such a dictum is less an insult to pleasure than to the flesh itself, that amazing instrument of muscles, blood, and skin, that red-tinged cloud whose lightning is the soul.

But even the longest dedication is too short and too commonplace to honor a friendship so uncommon. When I try to define this asset which has been mine now for years, I tell myself that such a privilege, however rare it may be, is surely not unique; that in the whole adventure of bringing a book successfully to its conclusion, or even in the entire life of some fortunate writers, there must have been sometimes, in the background, perhaps, someone who will not let pass the weak or inaccurate sentence which we ourselves would retain, out of fatigue; someone who would re-read with us for the twentieth time, if need be, a questionable page; someone who takes down for us from the library shelves the heavy tomes in which we may find a helpful suggestion, and who persists in continuing to peruse them long after weariness has made us give up; someone who bolsters our courage and approves, or sometimes disputes, our ideas; who shares with us, and with equal fervor, the joys of art and of living, the endless work which both require, never easy but never dull; someone who is neither our shadow nor our reflection, nor even our complement, but simply himself; someone who leaves us ideally free, but who nevertheless obliges us to be fully what we are. Hospes Comesque.

En el caso de la mayoría de los seres, los contactos más ligeros y superficiales bastan para contentar nuestro deseo, y aún para hartarlo. Si insisten, multiplicándose en torno de una criatura única hasta envolverla por entero; si cada parcela de su cuerpo se llena para nosotros de tantas significaciones trastornadoras como los rasgos de un rostro; si un solo ser, en vez de inspirarnos irritación, placer o hastío, nos hostiga como una música y nos atormenta como un problema; si pasa de la periferia de nuestro universo a su centro, llegando a sernos más indispensables que nuestro propio ser, entonces tiene lugar el asombroso prodigio en el que veo, mas que un simple juego de la carne, una invasión de la carne por el espíritu

I lent only half an ear to those well-intentioned folk who say that happiness is enervating, liberty too relaxing, and that kindness is a corruption for those upon whom it is practiced. That may be; but in the world as it is, such reasoning amounts to a refusal to nourish a starving man decently, for fear that in a few years he may suffer from overfeeding. When useless servitude has been alleviated as far as possible, and unnecessary misfortune avoided, there will remain as a test of man’s fortitude that long series of veritable ills, death, old age, and incurable sickness, love unrequited and friendship rejected or betrayed, the mediocrity of a life less vast than our projects and duller than our dreams; in short, all the woes caused by the divine nature of things.

But other hordes would come, and other false prophets. Our feeble efforts to ameliorate man’s lot would be but vaguely continued by our successors; the seeds of error and of ruin contained even in what is good would, on the contrary, increase to monstrous proportions in the course of centuries. A world wearied of us would seek other masters; what had seemed to us wise would be pointless for them, what we had found beautiful they would abominate. Like the initiate to Mithraism the human race has need, perhaps, of a periodical bloodbath and descent into the grave. I could see the return of barbaric codes, of implacable gods, of unquestioned despotism of savage chieftains, a world broken up into enemy states and eternally prey to insecurity. Other sentinels menaced by arrows would patrol the walls of future cities; the stupid, cruel, and obscene game would go on, and the human species in growing older would doubtless add new refinements of horror. Our epoch, the faults and limitations of which I knew better than anyone else would perhaps be considered one day, by contrast, as one of the golden ages of man.