Life is too short to read a bad book.

Evening had fallen. A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of sky line, the rim of a silver hoop embedded in grey sand: and the tide was flowing in fast to the land with a low whisper of her waves, islanding a few last figures in distant pools.

He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself: A day of dappled seaborne clouds.

There is only one thing that makes any one athlete better than another, his heart. We all put our underwear on feet first, so we are all human.

A dim antagonism gathered force within him and darkened his mind as a cloud against her disloyalty: and when it passed, cloudlike, leaving his mind serene and dutiful towards her again, he was made aware dimly and without regret of a first noiseless sundering of their lives.

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you?

What is better than to sit at the end of the day and drink wine with friends, or substitutes for friends?