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HAMLET. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me ; you would seem to know my stops ; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery ; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass : and there is much music, excellent voice in this little organ ; yet cannot you make it speak’. Sblood, do you think, I am easier to be played on than a pipe ? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
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La vie est une nutrition — assimilation physique — assimilation morale.
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La composition des Eginètes et d’Eschyle. Le primitif symétrique.
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L’influence de l’objet sur le sujet.
Emerson. Le gnôthi seauton.
