I am not young enough to know everything.
For several days after my first book was published, I carried it about in my pocket and took surreptitious peeps at it to make sure the ink had not faded.
The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it.
Our life is a book to which we add daily, until suddenly we are finished, and then the manuscript is burned.
It is very well to be able to write a book, but can you waggle your ears?
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