It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all doing direct the other way-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
I love you, Not only for what you are, But for what I am When I am with you, Not only for what You have made of yourself, But for what You are making of me. I love you For the part of me That you bring out; I love you For putting your hand Into my heaped-up heart And passing over All the foolish, weak things That you can't help Dimly seeing there, And for drawing out Into the light All the beautiful belongings That no one else had looked Quite far enough to find. I love you because you Are helping me to make Of the lumber of my life Not a tavern But a temple; Out of the works Of my every day Not a reproach But a song.
When a wise man is advised of his errors, he will reflect on and improve his conduct. When his misconduct is pointed out, a foolish man will not only disregard the advice but rather repeat the same error.
Buddha (563 - 483 BC)
Source: The Teaching of Buddha - Page 278 by Shōyū Hanayama
The fact that an opinion has been widely held is no evidence whatever that it is not utterly absurd; indeed in view of the silliness of the majority of mankind, a widespread belief is more likely to be foolish than sensible.
No man is so foolish but he may sometimes give another good counsel, and no man so wise that he may not easily err if he takes no other counsel than his own. He that is taught only by himself has a fool for a master.
When we were growing up years ago in our sleepy Southern town, most of the adults seemed rather staid and sober. There was, however, one memorable exception: Miss Lucy, a widow lady who lived with her prim and proper sister, Clara. But Miss Lucy was full of charm and sparkle and enthusiasm. One day Miss Lucy-in her 60s asserted that she could still stand on her head. When we looked doubtful, she clamped her skirt between her knees and did so, beaming at us upside down. "Oh, Lucy," said Clara. "Do be your age!" Miss Lucy righted herself. "What sort of nonsense is that?" she asked. "How can anyone be anything but their age? The trick is to love your age. Love it when you're young and strong and foolish. Love it when you're old and wise. Love it in the middle when the challenges come and you can solve some of them, maybe most of them. If you love your age, you'll never go around wishing you were some other age. Think about that, Clara."
Worry is evidence of an ill-controlled brain; it is merely a stupid waste of time in unpleasantness. If men and women practiced mental calisthenics as they do physical calisthenics, they would purge their brains of this foolishness.