Hatred Is A Feeling Which

We Fall In Love When Our Imagination Projects Nonexistent Perfection Upon Another Person. One Day, The Fantasy Evaporates And With It, Love Dies.

Imagine For A Moment That Each One Of Us Takes Only A Little More Care For Each Hour Of His Days, That He Demands In It A Little More Of Elegance And Intensity; Then, Multiplying All These Minute Pressures Toward The Perfecting And Deepening Of Each Life By All The Others, Calculate For Yourselves The Gigantic Enrichment, The Fabulous Ennobling Which This Process Would Create For Human Society.

Man In A Word Has No Nature; What He Has... Is History.

The Person Portrayed And The Portrait Are Two Entirely Different Things.

The Truth Is That No Horizon Is Especially Interesting By Itself, By Virtue Of Its Peculiar Content, And That Any Horizon, Wide Or Narrow, Brilliant Or Dull, Varied Or Monotonous, May Possess An Interest Of Its Own Which Merely Requires A Vital Adjustment To Be Discovered.