At Moments We Are All Artists.

Worry Is Evidence Of An Ill-controlled Brain; It Is Merely A Stupid Waste Of Time In Unpleasantness.

Every Scene, Even The Commonest, Is Wonderful, If Only One Can Detach Oneself, Casting Off All Memory Of Use And Custom, And Behold It (as It Were) For The First Time; In Its Right, Authentic Colors; Without Making Comparisons. Cherish And Burnish This Faculty Of Seeing Crudely, Simply, Artlessly, Ignorantly; Of Seeing Like A Baby Or A Lunatic, Who Lives Each Moment By Itself And Tarnishes By The Present No Remembrance Of The Past.

It Is Easier To Go Down A Hill Than Up, But The View Is From The Top.

We Shall Never Have More Time. We Have, And Always Had, All The Time There Is. No Object Is Served In Waiting Until Next Week Or Even Until Tomorrow. Keep Going... Concentrate On Something Useful.

The Chief Beauty About Time Is That You Cannot Waste It In Advance. The Next Year, The Next Day, The Next Hour Are Lying Ready For You, As Perfect, As Unspoiled, As If You Had Never Wasted Or Misapplied A Single Moment In All Your Life. You Can Turn Over A New Leaf Every Hour If You Choose.