The plastic virtues, purity, unity and truth, hold nature down beneath
their feet. In vain the rainbow is bent, the seasons vibrate, the
crowds rush on to death, science undoes and remakes that which
already exists, whole worlds withdraw forever from our conception, our
transitory images repeat themselves or revive their unconsciousness, and the
colours, odours, sounds which follow astonish us, then disappear from nature.



This monster of beauty is not eternal.
We know that our breath has had no beginning, and will have no end, but
we conceive first of all the creation and the end of the world.
Nevertheless, too many artists still adore plants, stones, waves, or men.
One quickly becomes accustomed to the bondage of the mysterious. And
this servitude ends by creating soft leisure.
One allows the labourer to dominate the universe, and gardeners have
less respect for nature than the artists.
It is time to be masters. Good will does not insure victory.
The mortal forms of love dance on this side of eternity, and the name of nature sums up
their accursed discipline.