Why would heavy metal ever go away?
How often my soul visits the National Gallery, and how seldom
Growing old is not a gradual decline, but a series of drops, full of sorrow, from one ledge to another below it.
Happiness is a wine of the rarest vintage, and seems insipid to a vulgar taste.
When elderly invalids meet with fellow-victims of their own ailments, then at last real conversation begins, and life is delicious.
The great art of writing is the art of making people real to themselves with words.
What things there are to write, if one could only write them! My mind is full of gleaming thought; gay moods and mysterious, moth-like meditations hover in my imagination, fanning their painted wings. But always the rarest, those streaked with azure and the deepest crimson, flutter away beyond my reach.
All good hotels tend to lead people to do things they wouldn't necessarily do at home.
No one achieves great things by following the crowd. Have a spine. Strike your own path.
We've gone from thinking the fuels that powered our growth were inexpensive, inexhaustible and benign to understanding they are exhaustible, expensive and toxic. Once you frame the problem that way, people will look at solutions differently.
Silence gives consent. [Lat. , Qui tacet, consentire videtur. ]