The first thing I do in any town I come to is ask if it has a bookstore.
One age is like another for the soul.
For, dear me, why abandon a belief, Merely because it ceases to be true, Cling to it long enough, and not a doubt, It will turn true again, for so it goes.
The artist in me cries out for design.
Space ails us moderns: we are sick with space.
When work becomes play, and play becomes your work, your life unfolds.