I Always Had An Aversion

Ill-humor Is Nothing More Than An Inward Feeling Of Our Own Want Of Merit, A Dissatisfaction With Ourselves Which Is Always United With An Envy That Foolish Vanity Excites.

A Flippant, Frivolous Man May Ridicule Others, May Controvert Them, Scorn Them; But He Who Has Any Respect For Himself Seems To Have Renounced The Right Of Thinking Meanly Of Others.

The Sickness Of The Heart Is Most Easily Got Rid Of By Complaining And Soothing Confidence.

The Fate Of The Architect Is The Strangest Of All. How Often He Expends His Whole Soul, His Whole Heart And Passion, To Produce Buildings Into Which He Himself May Never Enter.

Say What We May Of The Inadequacy Of Translation, Yet The Work Is And Will Always Be One Of The Weightiest And Worthiest Undertakings In The General Concerns Of The World.