Man Is An Imitative Creature.

The Happy Man Does Not Notice The Flight Of Time.

In The Case Of A Creative Mind, It Seems To Me, The Intellect Has Withdrawn Its Watchers From The Gates, And The Ideas Rush In Pell-mell And Only Then Does It Review And Inspect The Multitudes.

When The Measured Dance Of The Hours Brings Back The Happy Smile Of Spring, The Buried Dead Is Born Again In The Life-glance Of The Sun. The Germs Which Perished To The Eye Within The Cold Breast Of The Earth Spring Up With Joy In The Bright Realm Of Day.

There Is No Such Thing As Chance; And What Seem To Us Merest Accident Springs From The Deepest Source Of Destiny.

Culture, Far From Giving Us Freedom, Only Develops, As It Advances, New Necessities; The Fetters Of The Physical Close More Tightly Around Us, So That The Fear Of Loss Quenches Even The Ardent Impulse Toward Improvement, And The Maxims Of Passive Obedience Are Held To Be The Highest Wisdom Of Life.