When All Else Is Lost, The Future

Tranquil Pleasures Last The Longest; We Are Not Fitted To Bear The Burden Of Great Joys.

God, We Are Told, Looked Upon The World After He Had Created It And Pronounced It Good; But Ascetic Pietists, In Their Wisdom, Cast Their Eyes Over It, And Substantially Pronounce It A Dead Failure, A Miserable Production, A Poor Concern.

Words, Like Cannon Balls, Should Go Direct To Their Mark.

Panic Is A Sudden Desertion Of Us, And A Going Over To The Enemy Of Our Imagination.

We Cannot Reason Ourselves Into Love, Nor Can We Reason Ourselves Out Of It, Which Suggests That Love And Reason Have Little To Do With Each Other.