If we do not like our work, and do not try to get happiness out of it, we are a menace to our profession as well as to ourselves.

Love? Why ... it is what everybody feels for everybody else.

One's life story cannot be told with complete veracity. A true autobiography would have to be written in states of mind, emotions, heartbeats, smiles and tears; not in months and years, or physical events. Life is marked off on the soul by feelings, not by dates.

Many people know so little about what is beyond their short range of experience. They look within themselves - and find nothing! Therefore they conclude that there is nothing outside themselves either.

When indeed shall we learn that we are all related one to the other, that we are all members of one body?

It is curious to observe what different ideals of happiness people cherish, and in what singular places they look for this well-spring of their life. Many look for it in the hoarding of riches, some in the pride of power, and others in the achievements of art and literature; a few seek it in the exploration of their own minds, or in search for knowledge.

One can never consent to creep when one feels an impulse to soar.