Posted by: Silvana Stremiz
I love to talk about nothing. It's the only thing I know anything about.
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I love to talk about nothing. It's the only thing I know anything about.
The common hillflowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to...Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth.
If you pretend to be good, the world takes you very seriously. If you pretend to be bad, it doesn't. Such is the astounding stupidity of optimism.
The soul is born old but grows young. That is the comedy of life. And the body is born young and grows old. That is life's tragedy.
Logic is the last refuge of the unimaginative.
Women, as some witty Frenchman once put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always prevent us from carrying them out.
There is only one class in the community that thinks more about money than the rich, and that is the poor. The poor can think of nothing else. That is the misery of being poor.
For he who lives more lives than one more deaths than one must die.
A subject that is beautiful in itself gives no suggestion to the artist. It lacks imperfection.
People are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity.