No Mind, However Loving, Could

The Real Tragedy Is The Tragedy Of The Man Who Never In His Life Braces Himself For His One Supreme Effort-he Never Stretches To His Full Capacity, Never Stands Up To His Full Stature.

Every Scene, Even The Commonest, Is Wonderful, If Only One Can Detach Oneself, Casting Off All Memory Of Use And Custom, And Behold It (as It Were) For The First Time; In Its Right, Authentic Colors; Without Making Comparisons. Cherish And Burnish This Faculty Of Seeing Crudely, Simply, Artlessly, Ignorantly; Of Seeing Like A Baby Or A Lunatic, Who Lives Each Moment By Itself And Tarnishes By The Present No Remembrance Of The Past.

Literature Exists So That Where One Man Has Lived Finely Ten Thousand May Afterward Live Finely

Happiness Includes Chiefly The Idea Of Satisfaction After Full Honest Effort. No One Can Possibly Be Satisfied And No One Can Be Happy Who Feels That In Some Paramount Affairs He Failed To Take Up The Challenge Of Life.

Well, My Deliberate Opinion Is - It's A Jolly Strange World.