Nature is painting for us, day after day, pictures of infinite beauty.

Quality is never an accident. It is always the result of intelligent effort.

Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.

There is hardly anything in the world that some man cannot make a little worse and sell a little cheaper, and the people who consider price only are this man's lawful prey.

Remember that the most beautiful things in the world are the most useless; peacocks and lilies for instance.

What we think or what we know or what we believe is in the end of little consequence. The only thing of consequence is what we do

There is no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.

When love and skill work together, expect a masterpiece.

Blue color is everlastingly appointed by the deity to be a source of delight.

Give a little love to a child, and you get a great deal back.

The highest reward for a person's toil is not what they get for it, but what they become by it.

Paranoia is transmissible from mind to mind, but it does not go by the route of reason. It can therefore change its rationalization while remaining essentially the same.

Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.

The true writer has nothing to say. What counts is the way he says it.

When you're launching a business, you just really want to know somebody deeply to help in how you do it.

Work without contemplation is never enough.

I hate the word 'ought' - it always implies something dull, cold, and commonplace. The 'ought nots' of life are its pleasantest things.

If the child has not an object that it can occupy itself with, it feels ennui; for it does not yet know how to occupy itself with itself.

You cannot experience what you don't know. And you don't know you are in "heaven" right now because you have not experienced it.

Our whole spiritual transformation brings us to the point where we realize that in our own being, we are enough.

The man i'll never be, Who remembers him?