Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the colour of the wind.

Girls .. . were allowed to play in the house . . . and boys were sent outdoors. . .Boys ran around in the yard with toy guns going kksshh-kksshh,fighting wars for made-up reasons and arguing about whowas dead, while girls stayed inside and played with dol

Thereare no secrets. There is no mystery. There is only common sense.

When youcannot make up your mind which of two evenly balanced courses of action youshould take choose the bolder.

Believing that soom good can be derived from every event is a better preposition than that everything happens for the best, which is assuredly does not.

Listening,not imitation, may be the sincerest form of flattery.

Artists can color the sky red because they know its blue.those of us who are not artists must color things the way they really are or people might think we are stupid.

Nothing lays itself open to the change of exaggeration more than the language of naked truth.

Nothing has happend to you unless you make much of it.

Allthings at first appear difficult.

Be notdisturbed at being misunderstood; be disturbed at not understanding.

There is something monstrous in commands couched in invented and unfamiliar language, an alien master is the worst of all. The language of the law must not be foreign to the ears of those who are to obey it.