But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?
Out of Ireland have we come, great hatred, little room, maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother’s womb a fanatic heart.
Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.
Between truth and the search for it, I choose the second.
Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.
When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.
Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye; That’s all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die.
By 3000 B.C. the art of Egypt was so ripe and so far advanced that it is surprising to find any student of early culture proposing that the crude contemporary art of the early Babylonians is the product of a civilization earlier than that of the Nile.
A cat pours his body on the floor like water. It is restful just to see him.
I heard the old, old, men say ‘all that’s beautiful drifts away, like the waters.’