Our Claim To Our Own Bodies And

One Of The Troubles Of Our Times Is That We Are All, I Think, Precocious As Personalities And Backward As Characters.

Far From His Illness The Wolves Ran On Through The Evergreen Forests, The Peasant River Was Untempted By The Fashionable Quays; By Mourning Tongues The Death Of The Poet Was Kept From His Poems.

A Man Is A Form Of Life That Dreams In Order To Act And Acts In Order To Dream.

We Honor Founders Of These Starving Cities, Whose Honor Is The Image Of Our Sorrow.

How Happy The Lot Of The Mathematician. He Is Judged Solely By His Peers, And The Standard Is So High That No Colleague Or Rival Can Ever Win A Reputation He Does Not Deserve.