But games always cover something deep and intense, else there would be no excitement in them, no pleasure, no power to stir us.

True happiness comes from the joy of deeds well done, the zest of creating things new.

He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man.

Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree.

You see, one loves the sunset when one is so sad.

The essential things in life are seen, not with the eyes but with the heart.

Surely a man needs a closed place wherein he may strike root and, like the seed, become. But also he needs the great Milky Way above him and the vast sea spaces, though neither stars nor ocean serve his daily needs.