Color Is The Fruit Of Life.

Without Poets, Without Artists, Men Would Soon Weary Of Nature's Monotony. The Sublime Idea Men Have Of The Universe Would Collapse With Dizzying Speed. The Order Which We Find In Nature, And Which Is Only An Effect Of Art, Would At Once Vanish. Everything Would Break Up In Chaos. There Would Be No Seasons, No Civilization, No Thought, No Humanity; Even Life Would Give Way, And The Impotent Void Would Reign Everywhere.

Memories Are Hunting Horns Whose Sound Dies On The Wind.

Now And Then It's Good To Pause In Our Pursuit Of Happiness And Just Be Happy.

How Slow Life Is, How Violent Hope Is.

Joy Always Came After Pain.