Burning With Curiosity

Yet What Are All Such Gaieties To Me Whose Thoughts Are Full Of Indices And Surds?

Who Can Tell Whether The Parallelogram, Which In Our Ignorance We Have Defined And Drawn, And The Whole Of Whose Properties We Profess To Know, May Not Be All The While Panting For Exterior Angles, Sympathetic With The Interior, Or Sullenly Repining At The Fact That It Cannot Be Inscribed In A Circle?

The Cheshire Cat Only Grinned When It Saw Alice. It Looked Good-natured, She Thought: Still It Had Very Long Claws And A Great Many Teeth, So She Felt It Ought To Be Treated With Respect.

Be Sure The Safest Rule Is That We Should Not Dare To Live In Any Scene In Which We Dare Not Die. But, Once Realise What The True Object Is In Life — That It Is Not Pleasure, Not Knowledge, Not Even Fame Itself, 'that Last Infirmity Of Noble Minds' — But That It Is The Development Of Character, The Rising To A Higher, Nobler, Purer Standard, The Building-up Of The Perfect Man — And Then, So Long As We Feel That This Is Going On, And Will (we Trust) Go On For Evermore, Death Has For Us No Terror; It Is Not A Shadow, But A Light; Not An End, But A Beginning!

I Have Proved By Actual Trial That A Letter, That Takes An Hour To Write, Takes Only About 3 Minutes To Read!