The best of man is he who blushes when you praise him and remains silent when you defame him.

It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear, but rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.

How can I lose faith in the justice of life, when the dreams of those who sleep upon feathers are not more beautiful than the dreams of those who sleep upon the earth?

The tears that you spill, the sorrowful, are sweeter than the laughter of snobs and the guffaws of scoffers.

No man can reveal to you nothing but that which already lies half-asleep in the dawning of your knowledge.

Much of your pain is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.

For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons, and to step out of life’s procession that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.