Poets don&#39;t draw. They unravel their handwriting and then tie it up again, but differently.

Love lasts because it changes and not because it stays the same and never faces any challenges.

Mr. Casaubon had never had a strong bodily frame, and his soul was sensitive without being enthusiastic: it was too languid to thrill out of self-consciousness into passionate delight; it went on fluttering in the swampy ground where it was hatched, thinking of its wings and never flying.

I have a respect for manners as such, they are a way of dealing with people you don&#39;t agree with or like.

Written By Margaret Mead

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