Cold Exactitude Is Not Art; Ingenious Artifice,

Do All The Work You Can; That Is The Whole Philosophy Of The Good Way Of Life.

Nourish Yourself With Grand And Austere Ideas Of Beauty That Feed The Soul Seek Solitude.

Can Any Man Say With Certainty That He Was Happy At A Particular Moment Of Time Which He Remembers As Being Delightful? Remembering It Certainly Makes Him Happy, Because He Realizes How Happy He Could Have Been, But At The Actual Moment When The Alleged Happiness Was Occurring, Did He Really Feel Happy? He Was Like A Man Owning A Piece Of Ground In Which, Unknown To Himself, A Treasure Lay Buried.

If One Considered Life As A Simple Loan, One Would Perhaps Be Less Exacting. We Possess Actually Nothing; Everything Goes Through Us.

They Say That Each Generation Inherits From Those That Have Gone Before; If This Were So There Would Be No Limit To Man's Improvements Or To His Power Of Reaching Perfection. But He Is Very Far From Receiving Intact That Storehouse Of Knowledge Which The Centuries Have Piled Up Before Him; He May Perfect Some Inventions, But In Others, He Lags Behind The Originators, And A Great Many Inventions Have Been Lost Entirely. What He Gains On The One Hand, He Loses On The Other.