Language is the blood of the soul into which thoughts run and out of which they grow.
Many people die with their music still in them. Why is this so? Too often it is because they are always getting ready to live. Before they know it, time runs out.
Memory is a net: one that finds it full of fish when he takes it from the brook, but a dozen miles of water have run through it without sticking.
Death tugs at my ear and says, 'Live. I am coming.
Every event that a man would master must be mounted on the run, and no man ever caught the reins of a thought except as it galloped past him.
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