If An Angel Were To Tell Us

To Make Astute People Believe One Is What One Is Not Is, In Most Cases, Harder Than Actually To Become What One Wishes To Appear.

It Is Astonishing How Much The Word Infinitely Is Misused: Everything Is Infinitely More Beautiful, Infinitely Better, Etc. The Concept Must Have Something Pleasing About It, Or Its Misuse Could Not Have Become So General.

To Be Content With Life Or To Live Merrily, Rather All That Is Required Is That We Bestow On All Things Only A Fleeting, Superficial Glance; The More Thoughtful We Become The More Earnest We Grow.

Truly, Men Make Too Little Use Of Their Lives; And So It Is No Wonder That The World Should Still Be In Such A Poor Way.

Do We Write Books So That They Shall Merely Be Read? Don't We Also Write Them For Employment In The Household? For One That Is Read From Start To Finish, Thousands Are Leafed Through, Other Thousands Lie Motionless, Others Are Jammed Against Mouseholes, Thrown At Rats, Others Are Stood On, Sat On, Drummed On, Have Gingerbread Baked On Them Or Are Used To Light Pipes.