Love Is The Most Subtle Form Of

Only One-fourth Of The Sorrow In Each Man's Life Is Caused By Outside Uncontrollable Elements, The Rest Is Self-imposed By Failing To Analyze And Act With Calmness.

The Possession Of A Great Many Things, Even The Best Of Things, Tends To Blind One To The Real Value Of Anything.

A Large, Still Book Is A Piece Of Quietness, Succulent And Nourishing In A Noisy World, Which I Approach And Imbibe With "a Sort Of Greedy Enjoyment," As Marcel Proust Said Of Those Rooms Of His Old Home Whose Air Was "saturated With The Bouquet Of Silence."

Pedantry Is The Dotage Of Knowledge.

Intuition Is Reason In A Hurry.