Think Of The Ills From Which You

There Are Some Heads Which Have No Windows, And The Day Can Never Strike From Above; Nothing Enters From Heavenard.

Beautiful Works Do Not Intoxicate, But They Enchant.

The Essence Of Life Consists In Thinking, And Being Conscious Of One's Soul.

Criticism Even Should Not Be Without Its Charms. When Quite Devoid Of All Amenities, It Is No Longer Literary.

Attention Is Like A Narrow Mouthed Vessel; Pour Into It What You Have To Say Cautiously, And, As It Were, Drop By Drop.