Book: The Night Of François Villon

The path to change must begin in the heart...

For the revelers money is something alive and active, only a thin veil between him and pleasure. The limit of this choice lays only time. With a few Louis in his pocket reveller feels the Roman Emperor, until you spend it to the last penny. This to lose money means to feel the greatest misfortune to be transported instantly from heaven to hell, after of omnipotence to fall into complete insignificance.

The artistic temperament is often not adapted to practical life.

"There will prefer the other people who wrote Villon, on gold plated dishes." Well, help me out, Guido!
Tabari chuckled.
- "Or even used on silver," wrote the poet.

In Paris with the endless, tireless persistence, it was snowing. At times, the streets came the wind and then kicked up a tornado of snow; at times there came a lull, and then out of the darkness of the night sky in a silent circling felled countless major cereals. The poor folk poglyadyvaem from under wet brows, could only wonder, where does all this snow. Maitre Francois Villon, standing in the afternoon at the window of the tavern, has put forward such an assumption: whether it is pagan Jupiter sting geese on Olympus, whether it is shedding the Holy angels.