We Thirst For Approbation, Yet

The Beautiful Laws Of Time And Space, Once Dislocated By Our Inaptitude, Are Holes And Dens. If The Hive Be Disturbed By Rash And Stupid Hands, Instead Of Honey, It Will Yield Us Bees.

We Must Be Lovers, And At Once The Impossible Becomes Possible.

Every Man Is A Quotation From All His Ancestors.

We Do Not Count A Man's Years Until He Has Nothing Else To Count.

Though Your Views Are In Straight Antagonism To Theirs, Assume An Identity Of Sentiment, Assume That You Are Saying Precisely Thatwhich All Think, And In The Flow Of Wit And Love Roll Out Your Paradoxes In Solid Column, With Not The Infirmity Of A Doubt.