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Those who directed French education down through the centuries were the Jesuits. They taught us how to make sentences translated from the Latin, well balanced, with a verb, a subject, a complement, a rhythm. In short—here a speech, there a preach, everywhere a sermon! They say of an author, “He knits a nice sentence!” Me, I say, “It's unreadable.” They say, “What magnificent theatrical language!” I look, I listen. It's flat, it's nothing, it's nil. (...) Emotion. Savy, the biologist, said something appropriate: In the beginning there was emotion, and the verb wasn't there at all. When you tickle an amoeba she withdraws, she has emotion, she doesn't speak but she does have emotion. A baby cries, a horse gallops. Only us, they've given us the verb. That gives you the politician, the writer, the prophet. The verb's horrible. You can't smell it. But to get to the point where you can translate this emotion, that's a difficulty no one imagines . . . It's ugly . . . It's superhuman . . . It's a trick that'll kill a guy. (...) - Céline. Paul Morand, Ramuz, Inferno, Henri Barbusse The Outsider, Colin Wilson Mind at the End of its Tether, H. G. Wells