What Does It Matter, All Is Grace.

You Owe It To Everyone You Love To Find Pockets Of Tranquility In Your Busy World.

[t]he Cradle Is Shallower Than The Grave.

Our Rages, Daughters Of Despair, Creep And Squirm Like Worms. Prayer Is The Only Form Of Revolt Which Remains Upright.

[p]ride Has No Intrinsic Substance, Being No More Than The Name Given To The Soul Devouring Itself. When That Loathsome Perversion Of Love Has Borne Its Fruit, It Has Another, More Meaningful And Weightier Name. We Call It Hatred.

Optimism Has Always Seemed To Me The Cunning Alibi Of Egoists, Anxious To Cover Up Their State Of Chronic Self-satisfaction. They Are Optimists In Order To Avoid Pitying Other Men And Their Misfortune. ~~ Yet Pity Is A Vexed Question.