No water, no life. No blue, no green.
The life given us by nature is short, but the memory of a well-spent life is eternal.
Life is like a staircase, you’ll never get to the top unless you step up.
We are living in a period which all too readily scraps the old for the new. As a nation, we are in danger of forgetting that the new is not true because it is novel, and that the old is not false because it is ancient.
The element of the unexpected and the unforeseeable is what gives some of its relish to life and saves us from falling into the mechanical thralldom of the logicians.
As long as there are postmen, life will have zest.
The tragedy of life is in what dies inside a man while he lives – the death of genuine feeling, the death of inspired response, the death of the awareness that makes it possible to feel the pain or the glory of other men in yourself.
Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.
We exaggerate misfortune and happiness alike. We are never either so wretched or so happy as we say we are.
We protract the career of time by employment, we lengthen the duration of our lives by wise thoughts and useful actions. Life to him who wishes not to have lived in vain is thought and action.