It Is Love, Not Reason, That Is

One Has The Idea Of A Stupid Man As Perfectly Healthy And Ordinary, And Of Illness As Making One Refined And Clever And Unusual.

Even In A Personal Sense, After All, Art Is An Intensified Life. By Art One Is More Deeply Satisfied And More Rapidly Used Up. It Engraves On The Countenance Of Its Servant The Traces Of Imaginary And Intellectual Adventures, And Even If He Has Outwardly Existed In Cloistral Tranquility, It Leads In The Long Term To Overfastidiousness, Over-refinement, Nervous Fatigue And Overstimulation, Such As Can Seldom Result From A Life Of The Most Extravagant Passions And Pleasures.

Time Cools, Time Clarifies; No Mood Can Be Maintained Quite Unaltered Through The Course Of Hours.

People's Behavior Makes Sense If You Think About It In Terms Of Their Goals, Needs, And Motives.

We Do Not Fear Being Called Meticulous, Inclining As We Do To The View That Only The Exhaustive Can Be Truly Interesting.