We take refuge in pride, because we are afraid to tell the truth to ourselves.

In the worship of Bacchus, we have sacrificed too freely.... Why not consecrate ourselves to the queen of the Camelias, and revel in the warm stream of sympathy that flows from her altar? In the liquid amber within the ivory-porcelain, the initiated may touch the sweet reticence of Confucius.

Friends are flowers in life's garden.

A garden is a friend you can visit any time.

For life is an expression, our unconscious actions the constant betrayal of our innermost thought. Perhaps we reveal ourselves too much in small things because we have so little of the great to conceal. The tiny incidents of daily rouitine are as much a commentary of racial ideas as the highest flight of philosophy or poetry.

Let us dream of evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things.

In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends.