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Most human beings are quite likable if you don't see too much of them.
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It is almost impossible to remember how tragic a place the world is when one is playing golf.
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W. B. Yeats has created, if not a new world, a new star. He is not a reporter of life as it is, to the extent that Shakespeare or Browning is. One is not quite certain that his kingdom is of the green earth. He is like a man who has seen the earth not directly but in a crystal.
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The days on which one has been the most inquisitive are among the days on which one has been happiest.
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A cat is only technically an animal, being divine.
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It is the custom when praising a Russian writer to do so at the expense of all other Russian writers.
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There is nothing in which the birds differ more from man than the way in which they can build and yet leave a landscape as it was before.
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In order to see birds it is necessary to become a part of the silence.
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When one has praised Turgenev, however, for the beauty of his character and the beautiful truth of his art, one remembers that he, too, was human and therefore less than perfect. His chief failing was, perhaps, that of all the great artists, he was the most lacking in exuberance. That is why he began to be scorned in a world which rated exuberance higher than beauty or love or pity.
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This is woman's great benevolence, that she will become a martyr for beauty, so that the world may have pleasure.
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We forget that Socrates was famed for wisdom not because he was omniscient but because he realized at the age of seventy that he still knew nothing.