You May Impose Silence Upon Me, But

The Brain Is A Tool That Gets Rusty Without Constant, Albeit Moderate, Exercise.

I Know That I Have Found Fulfillment. I Have An Object In Life, A Task ... A Passion.

Heavens! Whatever Possesses Us, Here Below, That We Mutually Torment Ourselves, Sourly Reproach Our Mutual Faults, And Mercilessly Condemn All That Is Not Cut According To Our Pattern?

He Who Draws Noble Delights From Sentiments Of Poetry Is A True Poet, Though He Has Never Written A Line In All His Life.

... What Is There Over Which The Incomparable Beauty Of Childhood Would Not Triumph?