It Was The Contemplation Of God That

War Is Not An Adventure. It Is A Disease. It Is Like Typhus.

I Shall Look At You Out Of The Corner Of My Eye, And You Will Say Nothing. Words Are The Source Of Misunderstandings." -from The Fox-

The Dignity Of The Individual Demands That He Be Not Reduced To Vassalage By The Largesse Of Others.

The Job Has Its Grandeurs, Yes. There Is The Exultation Of Arriving Safely After A Storm, The Joy Of Gliding Down Out Of The Darkness Of Night Or Tempest Toward A Sun-drenched Alicante Or Santiago; There Is The Swelling Sense Of Returning To Repossess One's Place In Life, In The Miraculous Garden Of Earth, Where Are Trees And Women And, Down By The Harbor, Friendly Little Bars. When He Has Throttled His Engine And Is Banking Into The Airport, Leaving The Somber Cloud Masses Behind, What Pilot Does Not Break Into Song?

You Cannot Plant An Acorn In The Morning, And Expect That Afternoon To Sit In The Shade Of An Oak.