The Pen Is The Language Of The

The Very Remembrance Of My Former Misfortune Proves A New One To Me.

To Think That The Affairs Of This Life Always Remain In The Same State Is A Vain Presumption; Indeed They All Seem To Be Perpetually Changing And Moving In A Circular Course. Spring Is Followed By Summer, Summer By Autumn, And Autumn By Winter, Which Is Again Followed By Spring, And So Time Continues Its Everlasting Round. But The Life Of Man Is Ever Racing To Its End, Swifter Than Time Itself, Without Hope Of Renewal, Unless In The Next That Is Limitless And Infinite.

Since Don Quixote De La Mancha Is A Crazy Fool And A Madman, And Since Sancho Panza, His Squire, Knows It, Yet, For All That, Serves And Follows Him, And Hangs On These Empty Promises Of His, There Can Be No Doubt That He Is More Of A Madman And A Fool Than His Master.

Delay Always Breeds Danger.

Every Man Is The Son Of His Own Works.