If wrinkles must be written upon our brows, let them not be written upon the heart. The spirit should never grow old.

There is much that is bad and meaningless in the universe, and the universe contains men who know that much is bad and meaningless. The Christian answer is that this is a good world gone wrong, but with a memory of what it should have been.

The belly is the teacher of art and the bestower of genius.

The more tranquil a man becomes, the greater is his success, his influence, his power for good. Calmness of mind is one of the beautiful jewels of wisdom.

It is an immense loss to have all robust and sustaining expletives refined away from one! At. moments of trial refinement is a feeble reed to lean upon.

Mankind is divided into rich and poor, into property owners and exploited and to abstract oneself from this fundamental division and from the antagonism between poor and rich means abstracting oneself from fundamental facts.

A friend is the one who comes in when the whole world has gone out.

They feel neither shame, remorse, gratitude, nor goodwill.

All great deeds and all great thoughts have a ridiculous beginning. Great works are often born on a street corner or in a restaurant's revolving door.

Women are like fine wine. They all start out fresh, fruity and intoxicating to the mind and then they turn full-bodied with age until they go sour and vinegary and give you a headache.

Music is the wine that fills the cup of silence. •Robert Fripp There is nothing more notable in Socrates than that he found time, when he was an old man, to learn music and dancing, and thought it time well spent.

Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?

The march of science and technology does not imply growing intellectual complexity in the lives of most people. It often means the opposite.

Everybody has a photographic memory. . . . Some don't have film.

We ought not to be weary of doing little things for the love of God, who regards not the greatness of the work, but the love with which it is performed.

Beethoven can write music, thank God, but he can do nothing else on earth.

Enjoy the journey, enjoy ever moment, and quit worrying about winning and losing.

Ferryman ho! In the night so black Hark to the clank of iron; 'Tis heroes of the Yser, 'Tis sweethearts of glory, 'Tis lads who are unafraid! Ferryman ho!

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute, In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."

I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature.