He is not affected by the reality of distress touching his heart,
but by the showy resemblance of it striking his imagination.
He pities the plumage, but forgets the dying bird.
We know too much and feel too little.
At least,we feel too little of those creative emotions
Each of us makes his own weather, determines the color of
the skies in the emotional universe which he inhabits.
Strange how love coexists with hate, how they render each
other mute, how the swilling of them together makes a new
and softer,sympathetic thing.
Thomas paine
from which a good life springs.
Bertrand Russell
Bishop Fulton J Sheen.
Sonya Hartnett
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