There Is An Art Of Reading, As

Babies Are Unreasonable; They Expect Far Too Much Of Existence. Each New Generation That Comes Takes One Look At The World, Thinks Wildly, "is This All They've Done To It?" And Bursts Into Tears.

The Artistic Impulse Seems Not To Wish To Produce Finished Work. It Certainly Deserts Us Half-way, After The Idea Is Born; And If We Go On, It Is Labor.

The Worshipper Of Energy Is Too Physically Energetic To See That He Cannot Explore Certain Higher Fields Until He Is Still.

Elephants Suffer From Too Much Patience. Their Exhibitions Of It May Seem Superb,-such Power And Such Restraint, Combined, Are Noble,-but A Quality Carried To Excess Defeats Itself.

If You Don't Go To Other Men's Funerals, They Won't Go To Yours.