With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. ” “Well, I take it we’re straight again,” said Capes with a note of relief, and assumed an easier position on the edge of her table. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. I’ve seen him, and he doesn’t a bit understand. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard.
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