The Brain Is A Tool That Gets

One Is Happy As A Result Of One's Own Efforts, Once One Knows Of The Necessary Ingredients Of Happiness-simple Tastes, A Certain Degree Of Courage, Self-denial To A Point, Love Of Work, And, Above All, A Clear Conscience. Happiness Is No Vague Dream, Of That I Now Feel Certain.

One Wastes So Much Time, One Is So Prodigal Of Life, At Twenty! Our Days Of Winter Count For Double. That Is The Compensation Of The Old.

I Loved [fairy Stories] So, And My Mother Weighed Down By Grief Had Given Up Telling Me Them. At Nohant I Found Mmes. D'ardony's And Perrault's Tales In Old Editions Which Became My Chief Joy For Five Or Six Years ... I've Never Read Them Since, But I Could Tell Each Tale Straight Through, And I Don't Think Anything In All One's Intellecutal Life Can Be Compared To These Delights Of Imagination.

The Brain Is A Tool That Gets Rusty Without Constant, Albeit Moderate, Exercise.

We Do Not Die Of Anguish, We Live On. We Continue To Suffer. We Drink The Cup Drop By Drop.