Sometimes he dug in his garden; again, he read or wrote. He had but one word for both these kinds of toil; he called them gardening. "The mind is a garden," said he.

“آدم ها در دو حالت همديگر را ترك مي كنند: اول اينكه احساس كنند كسي دوستشون نداره…”

“Let us admit, without bitterness, that the individual has his distinct interest…”

“There are souls which, crab-like, crawl continually toward darkness, going back…”

“Books are cold but safe friends”