No Object Is Mysterious. The Mystery Is

Autumn Arrives In The Early Morning.

Spoilt Pleasure Is A Sad, Unseemly Thing; You Can Only Bury It.

Not Only Is There No Question Of Solitude, But In The Long Run We May Not Choose Our Company.

Love Of Privacy - Perhaps Because Of The Increasing Exactions Of Society - Has Become In Many People Almost Pathological.

Memory Is To Love What The Saucer Is To The Cup.