You can't fake it. Bad writing is a gift.

In their work, then, as in their play, men and women are more and more coming to share with each other as comrades, and really the fun of life seems in no wise diminished as a consequence.

It is the fine excesses of life that make it worth living.

Youth, however, can afford to enjoy even its melancholy; for the ultimate fact of which that melancholy is a prophecy is a long way off.

The beauty we love is very silent. It smiles softly to itself, but never speaks.

Celestial spirit that doth roll; The heart's sepulchral stone away, Be this our resurrection day, The singing Easter of the soul - O gentle Master of the Wise, Teach us to say: "I will arise."

Races and nations are thus ever ready to believe the worst of one another.