Our live experiences fixed in aphorisms stiffen into cold epigram. Our heart’s blood, as we write with it, darkens into ink. – F.H. Bradley
The lips of the wise are as the doors of a cabinet; no sooner are they opened, but treasures are poured out before thee. Like unto trees of gold arranged in beds of silver, are wise sentences uttered in due season. – The Economy of Human Life, Translated from an Indian Manuscript, Written by an A