Greed, Like The Love Of Comfort, Is

Melancholy And Remorse Form The Deep Leaden Keel Which Enables Us To Sail Into The Wind Of Reality; We Run Aground Sooner Than The Flat-bottomed Pleasure-lovers But We Venture Out In Weather That Would Sink Them And We Choose Our Direction.

There Is No Pain Equal To That Which Two Lovers Can Inflict On One Another. This Should Be Made Clear To All Who Contemplate Such A Union. The Avoidance Of This Pain Is The Beginning Of Wisdom, For It Is Strong Enough To Contaminate The Rest Of Our Lives.

Boys Do Not Grow Up Gradually. They Move Forward In Spurts Like The Hands Of Clocks In Railway Stations.

If Our Elaborate And Dominating Bodies Are Given Us To Be Denied At Every Turn, If Our Nature Is Always Wrong And Wicked, How Ineffectual We Are; Like Fishes Not Meant To Swim.

If Montaigne Is A Man In The Prime Of Life Sitting In His Study On A Warm Morning And Putting Down The Sum Of His Experience In His Rich, Sinewy Prose, Then Pascal Is That Same Man Lying Awake In The Small Hours Of The Night When Death Seems Very Close And Every Thought Is Heightened By The Apprehension That It May Be His Last.