"Oh, what a good time I have passed there in that gracious solitude, so far from the thousand little worrying things that torment me in Paris. No, I do not regret my nights passed in the woods, and my solitary days. If I had the time I would let myself recount all my musings. I would also describe my delicious valley, filled with the perfume of aromatic plants, the beautiful mass of foliage, so fresh and so humid, that hung over the Bièvre, the fairy palace with its colonnades of hops, the stony hills, red with heather, where it was so good to be. Oh, I shall remember always with gratitude the forest of the Minière; of all the woods I have seen, it is this one that I have loved most and where I have been happiest. Often in the evening I would start out and ascend again this valley, and I would return with twenty ideas in my head." Thus, for Pierre Curie, the sensation of well-being he experienced in the country was derived from the opportunity for tranquil reflection. Daily life in Paris with its numerous interruptions did not permit of undisturbed concentration, and this was to him a cause of inquietude and suffering. He felt himself destined for scientific research; for him the necessity was imperative of comprehending the phenomena of Nature in order to form a satisfactory theory to explain them. But when trying to fix his mind on some problem he had frequently to turn aside because of the multiplicity of futile things that disturbed his reflections and plunged him into discouragement. Under the heading, "A day like too many others," he enumerated in his diary a list of the puerile happenings that had completely filled one of his days, leaving no time for useful work. He then concluded: "There is my day, and I have accomplished nothing. Why?" Further on he returns to the same theme under a title borrowed from Victor Hugo's "Le Roi S'Amuse," "To deafen with little bells the spirit that would think." "In order that, weak one that I am, I shall not let my head turn with all the winds, yielding to the least breath that touches it, it is necessary that all should be immobile about me, or that, like a spinning top, movement alone should render me insensible to external objects. "When, in the process of turning slowly upon myself, I try to gain momentum, a nothing, a word, a story, a paper, a visit stops me and is able to put off or retard forever the moment when, granted a sufficient swiftness I might have, in spite of my surroundings, concentrated on my own intention.... We must eat, drink, sleep, be idle, love, touch the sweetest things of life and yet not succumb to them. It is necessary that, in doing all this, the higher thoughts to which one is dedicated remain dominant and continue their unmoved course in our poor heads. It is necessary to make a dream of life, and to make of a dream a reality."