The World Is Full Of Pots Jeering

Hope, Deceiving As It Is, Serves At Least To Lead Us To The End Of Our Lives By An Agreeable Route.

We Easily Forgive Our Friends Those Faults That Do No Affect Us Ourselves.

Perhaps Being Old Is Having Lighted Rooms Inside Your Head, And People In Them, Acting. People You Know, Yet Can't Quite Name.

The Truest Comparison We Can Make Of Love Is To Liken It To A Fever; We Have No More Power Over The One Than The Other, Either As To Its Violence Or Duration.

How Can We Expect Another To Keep Our Secret If We Have Been Unable To Keep It Ourselves?