Let Us Love Winter, For It Is

The Best Thing For A Man To Do Is To Be Born And, Being Born, To Die At Once.

Nothing, It Appears To Me, Is Of Greater Value In A Man Than The Power Of Judgment; And The Man Who Has It May Be Compared To A Chest Filled With Books, For He Is The Son Of Nature And The Father Of Art.

And There Is Quite A Different Sort Of Conversation Around A Fire Than There Is In The Shadow Of A Beech Tree.... Four Dry Logs Have In Them All The Circumstance Necessary To A Conversation Of Four Or Five Hours, With Chestnuts On The Plate And A Jug Of Wine Between The Legs. Yes, Let Us Love Winter, For It Is The Spring Of Genius.

He Who Has Not Been At A Tavern Knows Not What A Paradise It Is. O Holy Tavern! O Miraculous Tavern! - Holy, Because No Carking Cares Are There, Nor Weariness, Nor Pain; And Miraculous, Because Of The Spits, Which Themselves Turn Round And Round!

I Am, Indeed, A King, Because I Know How To Rule Myself.