Decide On What You Think

The Finest Language Is Mostly Made Up Of Simple Unimposing Words.

With Memory Set Smarting Like A Reopened Wound, A Man's Past Is Not Simply A Dead History, An Outworn Preparation Of The Present: It Is Not A Repented Error Shaken Loose From The Life: It Is A Still Quivering Part Of Himself, Bringing Shudders And Bitter Flavors And The Tinglings Of A Merited Shame.

It Is As Useless To Fight Against The Interpretations Of Ignorance As To Whip The Fog.

It Is Always Good To Know, If Only In Passing, Charming Human Beings. It Refreshes One Like Flowers And Woods And Clear Brooks.

In Every Parting There Is An Image Of Death.