God Has Thickly Strewn Infinity With Grandeur.

It Is Not Of So Much Consequence What You Say, As How You Say It. Memorable Sentences Are Memorable On Account Of Some Single Irradiating Word.

The Discovery Of A Grey Hair When You Are Brushing Out Your Whiskers Of A Morning—first Fallen Flake Of The Coming Snows Of Age—is A Disagreeable Thing.... So Are Flying Twinges Of Gout, Shortness Of Breath On The Hill-side, The Fact That Even The Moderate Use Of Your Friend's Wines At Dinner Upsets You. These Things Are Disagreeable Because They Tell You That You Are No Longer Young—that You Have Passed Through Youth, Are Now In Middle Age, And Faring Onward To The Shadows In Which, Somewhere, A Grave Is Hid.

A Bottomless Pit Of Violence, A Tower Of Babel Where All Are Speakers And No Hearers.

Pride's Chickens Have Bonny Feathers, But They Are An Expensive Brood To Rear. They Eat Up Everything, And Are Always Lean When Brought To Market.

Love Is But The Discovery Of Ourselves In Others, And The Delight In The Recognition.