Antithesis Is The Narrow Gateway Through Which

Love Is Blind, Friends Close Their Eyes

Some People Do Not Become Thinkers Simply Because Their Memories Are Too Good.

Out Of Damp And Gloomy Days, Out Of Solitude, Out Of Loveless Words Directed At Us, Conclusions Grow Up In Us Like Fungus: One Morning They Are There, We Know Not How, And They Gaze Upon Us, Morose And Gray. Woe To The Thinker Who Is Not The Gardener But Only The Soil Of The Plants That Grow In Him.

He Who Rejoices Even At The Stake Triumphs Not Over Pain But Over The Absence Of Pain Where He Had Anticipated Feeling It. A Parable.

Pity Aims Just As Little At The Pleasure Of Others As Malice At The Pain Of Others Per-se.