" This place might have been gay, around 1800, with its pink bricks and houses. Now there is
something dry and evil about it, a delicate touch of horror. It comes from that fellow up there on his pedestal. When they cast this scholar in bronze they also turned out a sorcerer.
I look at Impetraz full in the face. He has no eyes, hardly any nose, and beard eaten away by that strange leprosy which sometimes descends, like an epidemic, on all the statues in one neighbourhood.
He bows; on the left hand side near his heart his waistcoat is soiled with a light green stain. He looks.
He does not live, but neither is he inanimate. A mute power emanates from him: like a wind driving me backwards: Impetraz would
like to chase me out of the Cour des Hypotheques. But I shall not leave before I finish this pipe. "

― Jean-Paul Sartre , Nausea