A Bad Memory Is The Mother Of

We Are Closer To The Ants Than To The Butterflies. Very Few People Can Endure Much Leisure.

The Cliche Is Dead Poetry.

We Soon Cease To Feel The Grief At The Deaths Of Our Friends, Yet We Continue To The End Of Our Lives To Miss Them. They Are Still With Us In Their Absence.

Everyone Alters And Is Altered By Everyone Else. We Are All The Time Taking In Portions Of One Another Or Else Reacting Against Them, And By These Involuntary Acquisitions And Repulsions Modifying Our Natures.

Everyone Is A Bore To Someone. That Is Unimportant. The Thing To Avoid Is Being A Bore To Oneself.