One of the hallmarks of great men is that they never make us conscious of their presence, instead they dwelve into our unconscious state and transform into conscious being!

Personality begins where comparison leaves off. Be unique. Be memorable. Be confident. Be proud.

Do we take less pride in the possession of our home because its walls were built by some unknown carpenter, its tapestries woven by some unknown weaver on a far Oriental shore, in some antique time? No. We show our home to our friends with the pride as if it were our home, which it is. Why then should we take less pride when reading a book written by some long-dead author? Is it not our book just as much, or even more so, than theirs? So the landowner says, __ook at my beautiful home! Isn__ it fine?_ And not, __ook at the home so-and-so has built._ Thus we shouldn__ cry, __ook what so-and-so has written. What a genius so-and-so is!_ But rather, __ook at what I have read! Am I not a genius? Have I not invented these pages? The walls of this universe, did I not build? The souls of these characters, did I not weave?

Let every man be master of his fate.

No man his the master of his fate.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.