All false art$$$ all vain wisdom$$$ lasts its time but finally destroys itself$$$ and its highest culture is also the epoch of its decay.

I paint flowers so they will not die.

The bigger the crowd$$$ the more negligible the individual.

What a child doesn't receive he can seldom later give.

There are no themes so human as those that reflect the closeness of bliss to bale.

The right time is any time that one is still so lucky as to have.

There was another life that I might have had$$$ but I am having this one.

It often happens with grown-ups that their tears are misunderstood. (Who can know which time in their lives they are reliving?)

But who can distinguish between falling in love and imagining falling in love? Even genuinely falling in love is an act of the imagination.

There are people one loves and others one likes to talk to.