Politics drive them mad; gossip fails to interest them; the sorrows they create have no remedy save the joys that they invent; they are natural only when alone, and talk well only to themselves.
The only man who can put up with this moody contrariety of mine is Sylvestre Lampron.

He is nearly twenty years older than I.That explains his forbearance.

Besides, between an artist like him and a dreamer like myself there is only the difference of handiwork.

He translates his dreams.

I waste mine; but both dream.