O wise humanity, terribly wise humanity! How inscrutable is the civilization where men toil and work and worry their hair gray to get a living and forget to play!

It is not so much what you believe in that matters, as the way in which you believe it and proceed to translate that belief into action.

How many of us are able to distinguish between the odors of noon and midnight, or of winter and summer, or of a windy spell and a still one? If man is so generally less happy in the cities than in the country, it is because all these variations and nuances of sight and smell and sound are less clearly marked and lost in the general monotony of gray walls and cement pavements.

A good traveller is one who does not know where he is going to, and a perfect traveller does not know where he came from.

Let him cry whoever feels like crying, for we were animals before we became reasoning beings, and the shedding of a tear, whether of forgiveness or of pity or of sheer delight at beauty, will do him a lot of good.

Now it is characteristic of play that one plays without reason and there must be no reason for it. Play is its own good reason.

Life is too short to make an over-serious business out of it.