Beneath a precipice, that fronts the wave, / with limpid springs inside, and many a seat / of living marble, lies a sheltered cave, / home of the Sea-Nymphs. In this haven sweet / cable nor biting anchor moors the fleet.

The French language, by the way, is a clear stream that affected writers have never been, and will never be able to ripple. Each century has thrown in this limpid current its fashions, its pretentious archaisms and its preciousness, without anything surfacing from those useless attempts, those powerless efforts. The nature of this language is to be clear, logical and nervous. It won't let itself be weakened, obscured or corrupted.