The Wise Traveler Is He Who Is

A Flowerless Room Is A Soulless Room, To My Way Of Thinking; But Even A Solitary Little Vase Of A Living Flower May Redeem It.

It Is A Sad Moment When The First Phlox Appears. It Is The Amber Light Indicating The End Of The Great Burst Of Early Summer And Suggesting That We Must Now Start Looking Forward To Autumn. Not That I Have Any Objection To Autumn As A Season, Full Of Its Own Beauty; But I Just Cannot Bear To See Another Summer Go, And I Recoil From What The First Hint Of Autumn Means.

Nothing Shows Up The Difference Between The Things Said Or Read, So Much As The Daily Experience Of It.

Is It Better To Be Extremely Ambitious, Or Rather Modest? Probably The Latter Is Safer; But I Hate Safety, And Would Rather Fail Gloriously Than Dingily Succeed.

When, And How, And At What Stage Of Our Development Did Spirituality And Our Strange Notions Of Religion Arise? The Need For Worship Which Is Nothing More Than Our Frightened Refuge Into Propitiation Of A Creator We Do Not Understand? A Detective Story, The Supreme Who-done-it, Written In Indecipherable Hieroglyphics, No Rosetta Stone Supplied By The Consummate Mystifier To Tease Us Poor Fumbling Unravellers Of His Plot.