One of the occupational hazards of spreading the word about Eiffel is the frequent answer “yes, it’s much better than the language I use now, I would like to switch, but…“, followed by some sheepish excuse.
Last night I went to see Eugene Onegin once more (I still hope some day to land the part of Monsieur Triquet). Towards the beginning of the first act , Tatiana’s mother (Larina), reflecting in a melancholic tone on the vicissitudes of her (long ago) arranged marriage (and (amazingly) anticipating the very fate (as sketched in the last act) of her own daughter (talking about (amazing) anticipation, is there any other similarly hair-raising case of an author (here of the text behind the libretto) so presciently staging the (exact (down to the very last details)) story of his own future tragic death) but enough digressions (sorry (this is supposed (after all) to be (although it is not the first time (and probably not the last either) it strays from the script) a technology blog))), sings
From above, we were given habit:
It is a substitute for happiness
Is this not exactly the excuse?