The memory of everything is very soon overwhelmed in time.

When you arise in the morning$$$ think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive—to breathe$$$ to think$$$ to enjoy$$$ to love.

Love is our sympathy with organic life$$$ the touchingly lustful embrace of what is destined to decay.

One does not paint a landscape$$$ a seascape$$$ a figure. One paints an impression of an hour of the day.

He who loves the more is the inferior and must suffer.

Tolerance becomes a crime when applied to evil.

A winner is a dreamer who never gives up.

If I could go back would I do it differently? Well$$$ I can't go back.

What is our life: (Pause.) It's looking forward or it's looking back. And that's our life. That's it. Where is the moment?

I guess all that's left is to love the fire.