What Are You Laughing At? You Are

Countless As The Sands Of Sea Are Human Passions, And Not All Of Them Are Alike, And All Of Them, Base And Noble Alike, Are At First Obedient To Man And Only Later On Become His Terrible Masters.

But There Is Nothing Enduring In The World, And Therefore Even Joy In The Second Minute Is Already Not As Acute As In The First; In The Third Minute It Becomes Still Weaker And Finally Merges Unnoticeably With The Usual Condition Of The Soul, As A Circle On The Water, Caused By The Fall Of A Pebble, Finally Merges With The Smooth Surface.

The More Destruction There Is Everywhere, The More It Shows The Activity Of Town Authorities.

I Am Very Fond Of The Modest Manner Of Life Of Those Solitary Owners Of Remote Villages, Who In Little Russia Are Commonly Called "old-fashioned," Who Are Like Tumbledown Picturesque Little Houses, Delightful In Their Simplicity And Complete Unlikeness To The New Smooth Buildings Whose Walls Have Not Yet Been Discolored By The Rain, Whose Roofs Are Not Yet Covered With Green Lichen, And Whose Porch Does Not Display Its Bricks Through The Peeling Stucco.

Don't Blame The Mirror If Your Face Is Faulty.