Have You No Morals, Man?'

I Prefer The Man Who Calls His Nonsense A Mystery To Him Who Who Pretends It Is A Weighed, Measured, Analyzed Fact.

No Man Who Is Occupied In Doing A Very Difficult Thing, And Doing It Very Well, Ever Loses His Self-respect.

Your Wits Can't Thicken In That Soft Moist Air, On Those White Springy Roads, In Those Misty Rushes And Brown Bogs, On Those Hillsides Of Granite Rocks And Magenta Heather. You've No Such Colours In The Sky, No Such Lure In The Distances, No Such Sadness In The Evenings. Oh The Dreaming! The Dreaming! The Torturing, Heart-scalding, Never Satisfying Dreaming, Dreaming, Dreaming, Dreaming!

Let Not The Right Side Of Your Brain Know What The Left Side Doeth.

Use Your Health, Even To The Point Of Wearing It Out.