We Live Always Under The Weight Of

Ale, Not Beer, In A Pewter Mug Was Comme Il Faut, The Only Thing For A Gentleman Of Letters, Worthy Of The Name, To Drink.

Sometimes Our Thoughts Turn Back Toward A Corner In A Forest, Or The End Of A Bank, Or An Orchard Powdered With Flowers, Seen But A Single Time On Some Happy Day, Yet Remaining In Our Hearts And Leaving In Soul And Body An Unappeased Desire Which Is Not To Be Forgotten, A Feeling That We Have Just Rubbed Elbows With Happiness.

Solitude Is Indeed Dangerous For A Working Intelligence. We Need To Have Around Us People Who Think And Speak. When We Are Alone For A Long Time We People The Void With Phantoms

Patriotism Is A Kind Of Religion; It Is The Egg From Which Wars Are Hatched.

If I Could, I Would Stop The Passage Of Time. But Hour Follows On Hour, Minute On Minute, Each Second Robbing Me Of A Morsel Of Myself For The Nothing Of Tomorrow. I Shall Never Experience This Moment Again.