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Let us call the body the hut in which our existence is camped.
November 9.
In all that is mathematical there is something imperishable because there is nothing living.
Let us distinguish the beautiful from embellishment. How many works pass for beautiful and contain only embellishment. Those of Voltaire, etc. [Reading Fr. André.]
Time, in darkening them, has made bearable and sometimes even agreeable these [illegible word] of little architectural figures seen in old churches or old Gothic castles. [id.]
[Id.] Old paintings, old books, etc. Their age makes us indulgent through a kind of moral disposition, and the idea of the times in which they were made, giving our mind an agreeable occupation, adds to their merit or agreeableness through the kind of literary disposition into which it puts us.
November 10.
[Id.] The rooster. Whatever one may say, there is something ridiculous about this bird. True king of the barnyard. His swaggering air.
[Id.] “Flowers are blind” (oh, the charming expression!) “they receive our glances, but without returning them.” Without returning them is too dry. Say instead: “They do not return them to us.”
[Id.] It will always be a true merit to be able to play with one’s subject. (Especially if one otherwise treats it solidly.)
[Id.] Voltaire’s graces are proven.
[Id.] Exactness? Undoubtedly, an expression that is not exact is an ill-made garment.
[Id.] “Mathematical Muses”? Why not? It would be very good for mathematicians too to be persuaded that mathematics has its muse. All the more so because “if one pays attention” all geometric figures well drawn have a supreme elegance.
There are ruminant minds, and I am one. All my juices must pass through my double pouch.