Much as we may wish to make a new beginning, some part of us resists doing so as though we read more

Much as we may wish to make a new beginning, some part of us resists doing so as though we were making the first step toward disaster.

The reason for the slow progress of the world seems to lie in a single fact. Every man is born read more

The reason for the slow progress of the world seems to lie in a single fact. Every man is born under the yoke, and grows up beneath the oppressions of his age. He can only get a vision of the unselfish forces in the world by appealing to them, and every appeal is a call to arms. If he fights he must fight, not one man, but a conspiracy. He is always at war with a civilization. On his side is proverbial philosophy, a galaxy of invisible saints and sages, and the half-developed consciousness and professions of everybody. Against him is the world, and every selfish passion in his own heart.

For light I go directly to the Source of light, not to any of the
reflections.

For light I go directly to the Source of light, not to any of the
reflections.

Every single life only becomes great when the individual sets upon a
goal or goals which they really believe in, read more

Every single life only becomes great when the individual sets upon a
goal or goals which they really believe in, which they can really commit
themselves to, which they can put their whole heart and soul into.

I keep the telephone of my mind open to peace, harmony, health, love, and
abundance. Then, whenever doubt, anxiety, or read more

I keep the telephone of my mind open to peace, harmony, health, love, and
abundance. Then, whenever doubt, anxiety, or fear try to call me, they
will keep getting a busy signal-and soon they'll forget my number.

Perfection consists not in doing extraordinary things, but in doing
ordinary things extraordinarily well.

Perfection consists not in doing extraordinary things, but in doing
ordinary things extraordinarily well.

Days are scrolls: Write on them only what you want
remembered.

Days are scrolls: Write on them only what you want
remembered.

I was brought up in the great tradition of the late nineteenth century:
that a writer never complains, never explains read more

I was brought up in the great tradition of the late nineteenth century:
that a writer never complains, never explains and never disdains.

Forget those things that aren't worth remembering.

Forget those things that aren't worth remembering.