The Loss Of Our Illusions Is The

Coleridge Cried; "o God, How Glorious It Is To Live!" Renan Asks, "o God, When Will It Be Worth While To Live?" In Nature We Echo The Poet; In The World We Echo The Thinker.

Sport Inevitably Creates Deadness Of Feeling. No One Could Take Pleasure In It Who Was Sensitive To Suffering; And Therefore Its Pursuit By Women Is Much More To Be Regretted Than Its Pursuit By Men, Because Women Pursue Much More Violently And Recklessly What They Pursue At All.

It Is Only To Those Who Have Never Lived That Death Ever Can Seems Beautiful.

There Is No Knife That Cuts So Sharply And With Such Poisoned Blade As Treachery.

Emulation Is Active Virtue; Envy Is Brooding Malice.