Transit aetas, Volant anni, Nostri damni Causa sumus: Vivit anima immortalis Si vitalis Amor, ignis, cuncta fumus.
Life passes, the years fly past; of our misfortunes we are ourselves the cause. The soul lives on, immortal, while this life’s love and passion are as smoke.
[Oscar Wilde] wanted to place art above all else. But the grandeur of art is not to rise above all. On the contrary, it must blend with all. Wilde finally understood this, thanks to sorrow. But it is the culpability of this era that it always needed sorrow and constraint in order to catch a glimpse of a truth that can also be found in happiness, when the heart becomes worthy. *