We Become Actors Without Realizing It, And

Sadness Takes Up The Pen More Readily Than Joy.

The Ideal, After All, Is True Than The Real: For The Ideal Is The Eternal Element In Perishable Things.

True Poetry Is Truer Than Science, Because It Is Synthetic, And Seizes At Once What The Combination Of All The Sciences Is Able, At Most, To Attain As A Final Result.

We Are Never More Discontented With Others Than When We Are Discontented With Ourselves.

Self-interest Is But The Survival Of The Animal In Us. Humanity Only Begins For Man With Self-surrender.