Be The Flame, Not The Moth.

Love Is A Great Poet, Its Resources Are Inexhaustible, But If The End It Has In View Is Not Obtained, It Feels Weary And Remains Silent.

Real Love Is The Love That Sometimes Arises After Sensual Pleasure: If It Does, It Is Immortal; The Other Kind Inevitably Goes Stale, For It Lies In Mere Fantasy.

From That Moment Our Love Became Sad, And Sadness Is A Disease Which Gives The Death-blow To Affection.

As For Myself, I Always Willingly Acknowledge My Own Self As The Principal Cause Of Every Good And Of Every Evil Which May Befall Me; Therefore, I Have Always Found Myself Capable Of Being My Own Pupil, And Ready To Love My Teacher.

Those Who Do Not Love Life Do Not Deserve It.