Nature Is, After All, The Only Book

Our Destiny Often Looks Like A Fruit-tree In Winter. Who Would Think From Its Pitiable Aspect That Those Rigid Boughs, Those Rough Twigs Could Next Spring Again Be Green, Bloom, And Even Bear Fruit? Yet We Hope It, We Know It.

Publishers Are All Cohorts Of The Devil; There Must Be A Special Hell For Them Somewhere.

A Man Sees In The World What He Carries In His Heart.

What You Desire When Young, You Have In Abundance When Old.

Man Can Only Endure A Certain Degree Of Unhappiness; What Is Beyond That Either Annihilates Him Or Passes By Him And Leaves Him Apathetic