Perhaps This Is An Age When Men

Continually One Faces The Horrible Matter Of Making Decisions. The Solution Is, As Far As Possible, To Avoid Conscious Rational Decisions And Choices; Simply To Do What You Find Yourself Doing; To Float In The Great Current Of Life With As Little Friction As Possible; To Allow Things To Settle Themselves, As Indeed They Do With The Most Infallible Certainty.

Beauty Is Ever To The Lonely Mind A Shadow Fleeting; She Is Never Plain. She Is A Visitor Who Leaves Behind The Gift Of Grief, The Souvenir Of Pain.

Big Shots Are Only Little Shots Who Keep Shooting.

Man Makes A Great Fuss About This Planet Which Is Only A Ballbearing In The Hub Of The Universe.

Standing By The Crib Of One's Own Baby, With That World - Old Pang Of Compassion And Protectiveness Toward This So Little Creature That Has All Its Course To Run, The Heart Flies Back In Yearning And Gratitude To Those Who Felt Just So Toward One's Self. Then For The First Time One Understands The Homely Succession Of Sacrifices And Pains By Which Life Is Transmitted And Fostered Down The Stumbling Generations Of Men.