No Doctor Takes Pleasure In The Health

What A Man Hates, He Takes Seriously.

It Is A Thorny Undertaking, And More So Than It Seems, To Follow A Movement So Wandering As That Of Our Mind, To Penetrate The Opaque Depths Of Its Innermost Folds, To Pick Out And Immobilize The Innumerable Flutterings That Agitate It.

We Do Not Correct The Man We Hang; We Correct Others By Him.

The Bees Pillage The Flowers Here And There But They Make Honey Of Them Which Is All Their Own; It Is No Longer Thyme Or Marjolaine: So The Pieces Borrowed From Others He Will Transform And Mix Up Into A Work All His Own.

What Kind Of Truth Is It Which Has These Mountains As Its Boundary And Is A Lie Beyond Them?