Boast Is Always A Cry Of Despair,

I Walk In The Garden, I Look At The Flowers And Shrubs And Trees And Discover In Them An Exquisiteness Of Contour, A Vitality Of Edge, Or A Vigour Of Spring, As Well As An Infinite Variety Of Colour That No Artefact I Have Seen In The Last Sixty Years Can Rival...each Day, As I Look, I Wonder Where My Eyes Were Yesterday.

Government Is The Art Of The Momentary Feasible, Of The Least Bad Attainable, And Not Of The Rationally Most Desirable.

Boast Is Always A Cry Of Despair, Except In The Young It Is A Cry Of Hope.

German Is Of Stone, Limestone, Pudding Stone, Marble, Granite Even, And So To A Considerable Degree Is English, Whereas French Is Bronze And Gives Out A Metallic Resonance With Tones That Neither German Nor English Tolerate.

I Never Felt That There Was Anything Enviable In Youth. I Cannot Recall That Any Of Us, As Youths, Admired Our Condition To Excess Or Had A Desire To Prolong It.