It Isn't Enough To Love People Because

Life Calls The Tune, We Dance.

Art Is The One Form Of Human Energy In The Whole World, Which Really Works For Union, And Destroys The Barriers Between Man And Man. It Is The Continual, Unconscious Replacement, However Fleeting, Of Oneself By Another; The Real Cement Of Human Life; The Everlasting Refreshment And Renewal. For, What Is Grievous, Dompting, Grim, About Our Lives Is That We Are Shut Up Within Ourselves, With An Itch To Get Outside Ourselves. And To Be Stolen Away From Ourselves By Art Is A Momentary Relaxation From That Itching, A Minute's Profound, And As It Were Secret, Enfranchisement.

A Man Is The Sum Of His Actions, Of What He Has Done, Of What He Can Do, Nothing Else.

Justice Is A Machine That, When Some One Has Once Given It The Starting Push, Rolls On Of Itself.

There Are Moments When Nature Reveals The Passion Hidden Beneath The Careless Calm Of Her Ordinary Moods-violent Spring Flashing White On Almond-blossom Through The Purple Clouds; A Snowy, Moonlit Peak, With Its Single Star, Soaring Up To The Passionate Blue; Or Against The Flames Of Sunset, An Old Yew-tree Standing Dark Guardian Of Some Fiery Secret.