A Person Born With An Instinct For

Literature Is The Noblest Of All The Arts. Music Dies On The Air, Or At Best Exists Only As A Memory; Oratory Ceases With The Effort; The Painter's Colors Fade And The Canvas Rots; The Marble Is Dragged From Its Pedestal And Is Broken Into Fragments.

The Man Who Is Anybody And Who Does Anything Is Surely Going To Be Criticized, Vilified, And Misunderstood. This Is A Part Of The Penalty For Greatness, And Every Great Man Understands It; And Understands, Too, That It Is No Proof Of Greatness. The Final Proof Of Greatness Lies In Being Able To Endure Contumely Without Resentment.

The Man Who Doesn't Relax And Hoot A Few Hoots Voluntarily, Now And Then, Is In Great Danger Of Hooting Hoots And Standing On His Head For The Edification Of The Pathologist And Trained Nurse, A Little Later On.

A Good Front Is Half The Battle In Love Or War.

Anyone Who Idolizes You Is Going To Hate You When He Discovers That You Are Fallible. He Never Forgives. He Has Deceived Himself, And He Blames You For It.