To Have To Die Is A Distinction

We Are Never Happy; We Can Only Remember That We Were So Once.

Pride's Chickens Have Bonny Feathers, But They Are An Expensive Brood To Rear. They Eat Up Everything, And Are Always Lean When Brought To Market.

Fame Is But An Inscription On A Grave, And Glory The Melancholy Blazon On A Coffin Lid.

Looking Forward Into An Empty Year Strikes One With A Certain Awe, Because One Finds Therein No Recognition. The Years Behind Have A Friendly Aspect, And They Are Warmed By The Fires We Have Kindled, And All Their Echoes Are The Echoes Of Our Own Voices.

To Be Occasionally Quoted Is The Only Fame I Care For.