I must go in, the fog is rising.
But what are years, what are months!" he would exclaim. "Why count the days, when even one day is enough for man to know all happiness.
He was one of the numerous and varied legion of dullards, of half-animated abortions, conceited, half-educated coxcombs, who attach themselves to the idea most in fashion only to vulgarize it and who caricature every cause they serve, however sincerely.
Every man has some reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone, but only to his friends. He has others which he would not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But finally there are still others which a man is even afraid to tell himself, and every decent man has a considerable number of such things stored away. That is, one can even say that the more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in his mind.
There is immeasurably more left inside than what comes out in words.
Men like to to count their troubles; few calculate their happiness.
To love is to suffer and there can be no love otherwise.
Man, living, feeling man, is the easy sport of the over-mastering present.
What positive change? Why didn't we hear a word about all of Hillary Clinton's good works for the Clinton charitable foundation? I mean, you would think that's where it would all be. But we didn't hear about it.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
Some say the antique syndrome surfaced to offset the newness of the land, the homes, and the settlers. Some say the interest was initiated by a desire to return to the roots of yesterday. I contend the entire movement to acquire antiques was born out of sheer respect of things that lasted longer than fifteen minutes.