If You Wish To Preserve Your Secret,

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.

The Sea Complains Upon A Thousand Shores.

Every Day Travels Toward Death; The Last Only Arrives At It.

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.

It Is A Characteristic Of Pleasure That We Can Never Recognize It To Be Pleasure Till After It Is Gone.