They live for us as pictures live, as statues live.

What was it I was saying about statues--that they all look alike to me?
There are too many of them.
They bring the ancients down to us in marble and bronze, not in flesh and blood.

We do not really laugh with Terence and Horace, nor weep with AEschylus and Homer.

The very nomenclature has a ticket air like tags on a collection of curios in an auction room, droning the dull iteration of a catalogue.

There is as little to awaken and inspire in the system of religion and ethics of the pagan world they lived in as in the eyes of the stone effigies that stare blankly upon us in the British Museum, the Uffizi and the Louvre.
We walk the streets of the Eternal City with wonderment, not with pity, the human side quite lost in the archaic.