For Man Is A Plant, Not Fixed

Books Delight To The Very Marrow Of One's Bones. They Speak To Us, Consult With Us, And Join With Us In A Living And Intense Intimacy.

Not By Lamentations And Mournful Chants Ought We To Celebrate The Funeral Of A Good Man, But By Hymns; For, Ion Ceasing To Be Numbered With Mortals, He Enters Upon The Heritage Of A Diviner Life. Since He Is Gone Where He Feels No Pain, Let Us Not Indulge In Too Much Grief. The Soul Is Incapable Of Death. And He, Like A Bird Not Long Enough In His Cage To Become Attached To It, Is Free To Fly Away To A Purer Air. . . . Since We Cherish A Trust Like This, Let Our Outward Actions Be In Accord With It, And Let Us Keep Our Hearts Pure And Our Minds Calm.

Painting Is Silent Poetry, And Poetry Is Painting That Speaks.

Our Nature Holds So Much Envy And Malice That Our Pleasure In Our Own Advantages Is Not So Great As Our Distress At Others'.

What Sort Of Tree Is There Which Will Not, If Neglected, Grow Crooked And Unfruitful; What But Will, If Rightly Ordered, Prove Productive And Bring Its Fruit To Maturity? What Strength Of Body Is There Which Will Not Lose Its Vigor And Fall To Decay By Laziness, Nice Usage, And Debauchery?