I know him as well as he knows himself. […] Now he twisted himself into a circle, then stretched himself out on the ground like the trunk of a fallen tree. […] He fell in love with himself. […] When at last the work was done, the artist, waving his wings, found himself buoyed upwards and hung suspended, poising himself on the beaten air. […] Proserpine could not resist, and Pluto himself gave way.