Imagine a large kitchen at the moment of a great dinner. See twenty chefs coming and going in a cauldron of heat. Picture a great mass of charcoal, a cubic meter in size, for the cooking of entrees, and yet another mass for making he soups, the sauces and the ragouts and yet another for frying and for the water baths. Add to that a heap of burning wood for four spits, each one turning, one bearing a sirloin weighing forty-five to sixty pounds, another with a piece of veal weighing thirty-five to forty-five pounds, and another two for the fowl and game. In this furnace, everyone moves with speed; not a sound is heard: only the chef has a right to speak and at the sound of my voice everyone obeys. Finally the last straw: all the windows are closed so that the air does not cool the dishes as they are being served. Thus, we spend the best years of our lives. We must obey even when our strength fails us, but it is the burning charcoal that kills us. Does it matter? The shorter the life, the greater the glory.