Memory itself is an internal rumour.

Music is essentially useless, as is life.

The body is an instrument, the mind its function, the witness and reward of its operation.

The fact of having been born is a bad augury for immortality.

To knock a thing down, especially if it is cocked at an arrogant angle, is a deep delight of the blood.

Each religion, by the help of more or less myth, which it takes more or less seriously, proposes some method of fortifying the human soul and enabling it to make its peace with its destiny.

Music is essentially useless, as life is; but both have an ideal extension which lends utility to its conditions.