Nothing Can Be Preserved That Is Not

Truth Is Beautiful Within And Without, Forevermore.

A Man Passes For That He Is Worth. What He Is Engraves Itself On His Face, On His Form, On His Fortunes, In Letters Of Light. Concealment Avails Him Nothing; Boasting Nothing. There Is Confession In The Glances Of Our Eyes; In Our Smiles; In Salutations; And The Grasp Of Hands.

Tis Weak And Vicious People Who Cast The Blame On Fate. The Right Use Of Fate Is To Bring Up Our Conduct To The Loftiness Of Nature.

Every Violation Of Truth Is Not Only A Sort Of Suicide In The Liar, But Is A Stab At The Health Of Human Society.

Each Mind Has Its Own Method.