The other day, I was so desperate for a beer, I snuck into the football stadium and ate the dirt under the bleachers.

We cannot all hope to combine the pleasing qualities of good looks, brains, and eloquence.

There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.

True friends appear less moved than counterfeit.

The skin of the coward changes color all the time, he can't get a grip on himself, he can't sit still, he squats and rocks, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his heart racing, pounding inside the fellow's ribs, his teeth chattering. He dreads some grisly death. But the skin of a brave soldier never blanches. He's all control. Tense but no great fear.

'Yea and I beheld Sisyphus in strong torment, grasping a monstrous stone with both his hands. He was pressing thereat with hands and feet, and trying to roll the stone upward toward the brow of the hill. But oft as he was about to hurl it over the top, the weight would drive him back, so once again to the plain rolled the stone, the shameless thing. And he once more kept heaving and straining, and the sweat the while was pouring down his limbs, and the dust rose upwards from his head.

The leader, mingling with the vulgar host, Is in the common mass of matter lost.