The greatest tragedy of modern life is that we have everything we want, but nothing we need.

Every mark on the canvas is a memory.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

We thought we had such problems. How were we to know we were happy?

I don't care about others to scold me, as long as they fear me.