The Good Traveler Has The Gift Of

This Love Was A Torment, And He Resented Bitterly The Subjugation In Which It Held Him; He Was A Prisoner And He Longed For Freedom. Sometimes He Awoke In The Morning And Felt Nothing; His Soul Leaped, For He Thought He Was Free; He Loved No Longer; But In A Little While, As He Grew Wide Awake, The Pain Settled In His Heart, And He Knew That He Was Not Cured Yet.

The Crown Of Literature Is Poetry.

You Tend To Close Your Eyes To Truth, Beauty And Goodness Because They Give No Scope To Your Sense Of The Ridiculous.

Life Is So Largely Controlled By Chance That Its Conduct Can Be But A Perpetual Improvisation.

A Good Havana Is One Of The Best Pleasures That I Know.