Every Beginning Is Cheerful.

Publishers Are All Cohorts Of The Devil; There Must Be A Special Hell For Them Somewhere.

Our Destiny Often Looks Like A Fruit-tree In Winter. Who Would Think From Its Pitiable Aspect That Those Rigid Boughs, Those Rough Twigs Could Next Spring Again Be Green, Bloom, And Even Bear Fruit? Yet We Hope It, We Know It.

I Love Those Who Yearn For The Impossible.

There Is Nothing In Which People More Betray Their Character Than In What They Laugh At.

Yet He Who Grasps The Moment's Gift, He Is The Proper Man.