The Spirit From Which We

Each Has His Own Happiness In His Hands, As The Artist Handles The Rude Clay He Seeks To Reshape It Into A Figure; Yet It Is The Same With This Art As With All Others: Only The Capacity For It Is Innate; The Art Itself Must Be Learned And Painstakingly Practiced.

We Are Forced To Participate In The Games Of Life Before We Can Possibly Learn How To Use The Options In The Rules Governing Them.

I Must Consider More Closely This Cycle Of Good And Bad Days Which I Find Coursing Within Myself. Passion, Attachment, The Urge To Action, Inventiveness, Performance, Order All Alternate And Keep Their Orbit; Cheerfulness, Vigor, Energy, Flexibility And Fatigue, Serenity As Well As Desire. Nothing Disturbs The Cycle For I Lead A Simple Life, But I Must Still Find The Time And Order In Which I Rotate.

Know'st Thou Yesterday, Its Aim And Reason? Work'st Thou Will Today For Worthier Things? Then Calmly Wait The Morrow's Hidden Season, And Fear Thou Not, What Hap Soe'er It Brings

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.