A Brave Soul Is A Thing Which

Pleasure Has No Logic; It Never Treads In Its Own Footsteps.

Love Is But The Discovery Of Ourselves In Others, And The Delight In The Recognition.

The Discovery Of A Grey Hair When You Are Brushing Out Your Whiskers Of A Morning—first Fallen Flake Of The Coming Snows Of Age—is A Disagreeable Thing.... So Are Flying Twinges Of Gout, Shortness Of Breath On The Hill-side, The Fact That Even The Moderate Use Of Your Friend's Wines At Dinner Upsets You. These Things Are Disagreeable Because They Tell You That You Are No Longer Young—that You Have Passed Through Youth, Are Now In Middle Age, And Faring Onward To The Shadows In Which, Somewhere, A Grave Is Hid.

The Great Man Is The Man Who Does A Thing For The First Time.

In My Garden I Spend My Days; In My Library I Spend My Nights.