All The Year Round There Is Spring,

Socialism Is Good When It Comes To Wages, But It Tells Me Nothing When It Comes To Other Questions In Life That Are More Private And Painful, For Which I Must Seek Answers Elsewhere.

Only Years Of Practice Will Teach You The Mysteries And Bold Certainty Of A Real Gardener, Who Treads At Random, Yet Tramples On Nothing.

Art Must Not Serve Might.

I Find That A Real Gardener Is Not A Man Who Cultivates Flowers; He Is A Man Who Cultivates The Soil. He Is A Creature Who Digs Himself Into The Earth And Leaves The Sight Of What Is On It To Us Gaping Good-for-nothings. He Lives Buried In The Ground. He Builds His Monument In A Heap Of Compost. If He Came Into The Garden Of Eden, He Would Sniff Excitedly And Say: "good Lord, What Humus!"

There Came Into The World An Unlimited Abundance Of Everything People Need. But People Need Everything Except Unlimited Abundance.