But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.

The stench of the trail of Ego in our History. It is ego - ego, the fountain cry, origin, sole source of war.

We never know what's in us till we stand by ourselves.

See ye not, Courtesy is the true Alchemy, turning to gold all it touches and tries?

Faith works miracles. At least it allows time for them.

A house with a great wine stored below lives in our imagination as a joyful house, fast and splendidly rooted in the soil.

Among the Diaries beginning with the second quarter of our century, there is frequent mention of a lady then becoming famous for her beauty and her wit: "an unusual combination," in the deliberate syllables of one of the writers, who is, however, not disposed to personal irony when speaking of her.