Virtually All Men Of Action

Love Is Not Only A Feeling, It Is Also An Art. A Simple Word, A Sensitive Precaution, A Mere Nothing Reveal To A Woman The Sublime Artist Who Can Touch Her Heart Without Withering It.

Jealousy, An Eminently Credulous And Suspicious Passion, Allows Fancy The Greatest Possible Play. But It Does Not Bestow Wit, It Banishes All Sense.

To Get A Traveling Salesman Drunk Is The Height Of Impossibility.

It Is A Singular Fact That Most Men Of Action Incline To The Theory Of Fatalism, While The Greater Part Of Men Of Thought Believe In Providence.

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.