Brussels Is A Gay Little City That

The Joy Of A Strong Nature Is As Cloudless As Its Suffering Is Desolate.

It Is Quite Easy For Stupid People To Be Happy; They Believe In Fables, And They Trot On In A Beaten Track Like A Horse On A Tramway.

If All Feeling For Grace And Beauty Were Not Extinguished In The Mass Of Mankind At The Actual Moment, Such A Method Of Locomotion As Cycling Could Never Have Found Acceptance; No Man Or Woman With The Slightest Aesthetic Sense Could Assume The Ludicrous Position Necessary For It.

Power Is Sweet, And When You Are A Little Clerk You Love Its Sweetness Quite As Much As If You Were An Emperor, And Maybe You Love It A Good Deal More.

What Is Failure Except Feebleness? And What Is It To Miss One's Mark Except To Aim Widely And Weakly?