Sitting alone in a Paris garden, surrounded by Rodin statues, I watch the world pass me by, as I have for hundreds of years. Just beyond the hedge I see the golden dome that marks the place where Napoleon is buried. All sorts of people pass by, some marveling at my creator's talent, others wondering why he depicted such unnaturally large hands and feet. It's easy to recognize the American tourists, in blue jeans, staring at the naked statues, and the British, in slightly more formal attire, staring the same. Young couples passed me by, hand in hand, enjoying the weather and the garden and each other's company. Yet here I sit, in a lonely haze, separated from my very existence by all who pass by. Completely alone, I look down as people go about their lives. THE...