Even when you make a tax form out on the level, you do not know when it is through if you are a crook or a martyr.
Our days are a kaleidoscope. Every instant a change takes place in the contents. New harmonies, new contrasts, new combinations of every sort. Nothing ever happens twice alike. The most familiar people stand each moment in some new relation to each other, to their work, to surrounding objects. The most tranquil house, with the most serene inhabitants, living upon the utmost regularity of system, is yet exemplifying infinite diversities.
In England, it's a rare thing to see a player smoking but, all in all, I prefer that to an alcoholic. The relationship with alcohol is a real problem in English football and, in the short term, it's much more harmful to a sportsman. It weakens the body, which becomes more susceptible to injury.
Some find that they are content with little, while others find that they want much, much more. Still others create and manifest many things, only to later discover that it was the creation which brought them greater joy and satisfaction, more so than the actual possession or enjoyment of those creations.
How the old mountains drip with sunset,And the brake of dun!How the hemlocks are tipped in tinselBy the wizard sun!How the old steeples hand the scarlet,Till the ball is full, --Have I the lip of the flamingoThat I dare to tell?Then, how the fire ebbs like billows,Touching all the grassWith a departing, sapphire feature,As if a duchess pass!How a small dusk crawls on the villageTill the houses blot;And the odd flambeaux no men carryGlimmer on the spot!Now it is night in nest and kennel,And where was the wood,Just a dome of abyss is noddingInto solitude! --These are the visions baffled Guido;Titian never told;Domenichino dropped the pencil,Powerless to unfold.