“What’s a man’s age? He must hurry more, that’s all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.”

Night conceals a world but reveals a universe.

Pleasure must succeed to pleasure, else past pleasure turns to pain.

Most progress is most failure.

Such ever was love’s way: to rise, it stoops.

Good to forgive, Best to forget.

Who knows most, doubts most.

Truth is within ourselves.

Ignorance is not innocence but sin.

Who hears music feels his solitude peopled at once.

But how carve way i’ the life that lies before, If bent on groaning ever for the past?

Best be yourself, imperial, plain, and true.

My sun sets to rise again.

Truth never hurts the teller.

Rejoice that man is hurled, From change to change unceasingly, His soul’s wings never furled!

As is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: You will find what you desire.

You call for faith: I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists. The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say, If faith o’ercomes doubt.

I was sixty-six years old. I still had to make a living. I looked at my social security check of 105 dollars and decided to use that to try to franchise my chicken recipe. Folks had always liked my chicken.

When the venerable pontiff’s hour has come, a Roman of good age shall be elected, of whom it will be said that he dishonored his throne though he held it long, with virtuous acts.

All for ourselves, and nothing for other people, seems, in every age of the world, to have been the vile maxim of the masters of mankind.

Age is never so old as youth would measure it.

Every age that has historical status is governed by aristocracies. Aristocracy with the meaning – the best are ruling. Peoples do never govern themselves. That lunacy was concocted by liberalism. Behind its people’s sovereignty the slyest cheaters are hiding, who don’t want to be recognized.

The age of hairsplitting Jewish intellectualism is dead. The past lies in flames.

I think true love – love, wine and beauty, they better with age.

At the age when Bengali youth almost inevitably writes poetry, I was listening to European classical music.