Writing Is Busy Idleness.

A Man's Manners Are A Mirror In Which He Shows His Portrait.

Each Has His Own Happiness In His Hands, As The Artist Handles The Rude Clay He Seeks To Reshape It Into A Figure; Yet It Is The Same With This Art As With All Others: Only The Capacity For It Is Innate; The Art Itself Must Be Learned And Painstakingly Practiced.

Over All The Mountain Tops Is Peace. In All Treetops You Perceive Scarcely A Breath. The Little Birds In The Forest Are Silent. Wait Then; Soon, You Too, Will Have Peace.

Conscience Is The Virtue Of The Observers Not The Agents Of Action

If You Want A Wise Answer, Ask A Reasonable Question.