Common Sense Is As Rare As Genius.

A Believer, A Mind Whose Faith Is Consciousness, Is Never Disturbed Because Other Persons Do Not Yet See The Fact Which He Sees.

In Private Places, Among Sordid Objects, An Act Of Truth Or Heroism Seems At Once To Draw To Itself The Sky As Its Temple, The Sun As Its Cradle. Nature Stretches Out Her Arms To Embrace Man, Only Let His Thoughts Be Of Equal Greatness.

You Have Just Dined, And However Scrupulously The Slaughterhouse Is Concealed In The Graceful Distance Of Miles, There Is Complicity.

Each Mind Has Its Own Method.

A Little Praise Goes A Great Ways.