Perfection is such a nuisance that I often regret having cured myself of using tobacco.
The vague torment of ... ambition.
Inability, human incapacity, is the only boundary to an art.
When truth is buried, it grows. It chokes. It gathers such an explosive force that on the day it bursts out, it blows up everything with it.
Nothing develops intelligence like travel.
Oh, the fools, like a lot of good little schoolboys, scared to death of anything they've been taught is wrong!