Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and almost never leave. Our lives are measured by those.
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The art of living is more like that of wrestling than of dancing. The main thing is to stand firm read more
The art of living is more like that of wrestling than of dancing. The main thing is to stand firm and be ready for an unseen attack.
Life is short, live it. Love is rare, grab it. Anger is bad, dump it. Fear is awful, face it. read more
Life is short, live it. Love is rare, grab it. Anger is bad, dump it. Fear is awful, face it. Memories are sweet. Cherish them.
Things change. And friends leave. Life doesn't stop for anybody.
Things change. And friends leave. Life doesn't stop for anybody.
This strange disease of modern life,
With its sick hurry, its divided aims.
This strange disease of modern life,
With its sick hurry, its divided aims.
All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin. And therefore, as a free man, I take pride read more
All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin. And therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words "Ich bin ein Berliner!"
When you step on the brakes your life is in your foot's hands.
When you step on the brakes your life is in your foot's hands.
The art of life is to know how to enjoy a little and to endure much.
The art of life is to know how to enjoy a little and to endure much.
The first half of our lives is ruined by our parents and the second half by our children.
The first half of our lives is ruined by our parents and the second half by our children.
Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was read more
Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.
