The wine is poured, you should drink it. [Fr., Le vin est verse, il faut le boire.]

What is a modern poet's fate?/ To write his thoughts upon a slate;/ The critic spits on what is done,/ Gives it a wipe" - and all is gone.

It is the customary fate of new truths to begin as heresies and to end as superstitions

Whether it's destiny or fate or whatever, I don't think I could do a French Laundry anywhere else.

Maybe it frightened them, to admit that a woman could be master of her fate.

Those who live in the country get idiotic in time, without noticing it, for a while they think it's original and good for their health, but life in the country is not original at all, for anyone who wasn't born in and for the country it shows a lack of taste and is only harmful to their health. The people who go walking in the country walk right into their own funeral in the country and at the very least they lead a grotesque existence which leads them first into idiocy, then into an absurd death.