You Keep To Your Own

Man Has Not A Greater Enemy Than Himself.

Virtue Is Health, Vice Is Sickness.

Gold, Silver, Jewels, Purple Garments, Houses Built Of Marble, Groomed Estates, Pious Paintings, Caparisoned Steeds, And Other Things Of This Kind Offer A Mutable And Superficial Pleasure; Books Give Delight To The Very Marrow Of One's Bones. They Speak To Us, Consult With Us, And Join With Us In A Living And Intense Intimacy.

If A Hundred Or A Thousand People, All Of The Same Age, Of The Same Constitution And Habits, Were Suddenly Seized By The Same Illness, And One Half Of Them Were To Place Themselves Under The Care Of Doctors, Such As They Are In Our Time, Whilst The Other Half Entrusted Themselves To Nature And To Their Own Discretion, I Have Not The Slightest Doubt That There Would Be More Cases Of Death Amongst The Former, And More Cases Of Recovery Among The Latter.

Books Never Pall On Me. They Discourse With Us, They Take Counsel With Us, And Are United To Us By A Certain Living Chatty Familiarity. And Not Only Does Each Book Inspire The Sense That It Belongs To Its Readers, But It Also Suggests The Name Of Others, And One Begets The Desire Of The Other.