The World Is A Thing

The Mathematics Of High Achievement

Imperfection Clings To A Person, And If They Wait Till They Are Brushed Off Entirely, They Would Spin For Ever On Their Axis, Advancing Nowhere.

That Great Mystery Of Time, Were There No Other; The Illimitable, Silent, Never-resting Thing Called Time, Rolling, Rushing On, Swift, Silent, Like An All-embracing Ocean Tide, On Which We And All The Universe Swim Like Exhalations, Like Apparitions Which Are, And Then Are Not: This Is Forever Very Literally A Miracle; A Thing To Strike Us Dumb,-for We Have No Word To Speak About It.

Talk That Does Not End In Any Kind Of Action Is Better Suppressed Altogether.

Pain Was Not Given Thee Merely To Be Miserable Under; Learn From It, Turn It To Account.