Happiness Is A Form Of

A Large, Still Book Is A Piece Of Quietness, Succulent And Nourishing In A Noisy World, Which I Approach And Imbibe With "a Sort Of Greedy Enjoyment," As Marcel Proust Said Of Those Rooms Of His Old Home Whose Air Was "saturated With The Bouquet Of Silence."

The Time To Read Is Any Time: No Apparatus, No Appointment Of Time And Place, Is Necessary.

Genius Is Initiative On Fire.

Don't Try To Convert The Elderly Person; Circumvent Him.

Why Did Nature Create Man? Was It To Show That She Is Big Enough To Make Mistakes, Or Was It Pure Ignorance?