A loud noise at one end and no sense of responsibility at the other.
Moving between the legs of tables and of chairs, Rising or falling, grasping at kisses and toys, Advancing boldly, sudden to take alarm, Retreating to the corner of arm and knee, Eager to be reassured, taking pleasure In the fragrant brilliance of the Christmas tree. . . .
Our birth is nothing but our death begun.
Do not forget birthdays. This is in no way a propaganda for a larger population.
I’m sorry you are wiser, I’m sorry you are taller; I liked you better foolish And I liked you better smaller.
Our birthdays are feathers in the broad wing of time.
To divide one’s life by years is of course to tumble into a trap set by our own arithmetic. The calendar consents to carry on its dull wall-existence by the arbitrary timetables we have drawn up in consultation with those permanent commuters, Earth and Sun. But we, unlike trees, need grow no annual rings.
A classic— something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read.
A good book is the best of friends, the same today and for ever.
To do the same thing over and over again is not only boredom: it is to be controlled by rather than to control what you do.
Boredom is . . . a vital problem for the moralist, since at least half the sins of mankind are caused by the fear of it.
