Joy Descends Gently Upon Us Like The

Man Has Here Two And A Half Minutes-one To Smile, One To Sigh, And A Half To Love: For In The Midst Of This Minute He Dies.

It Is Not The End Of Joy That Makes Old Age So Sad, But The End Of Hope.

Fancy Rules Over Two Thirds Of The Universe, The Past, And Future, While Reality Is Confined To The Present

Art Is Indeed Not The Bread But The Wine Of Life.

A Scholar Knows No Boredom.