You are eight years old. It is Sunday evening. You are granted an extra hour before bed. The family is playing monopoly. You have been told that you are big enough to join them. You lose. You are losing continuously. Your stomach cramps with fear. Nearly all your possessions are gone. Your brothers are snatching all the houses from your streets. The last street is being sold. You have to give in. You have lost. And suddenly, you know that it is only a game. You jump with joy and you knock the big lamp over. It falls on the floor and drags the teapot with it. The others are angry with you, but you laugh when you go upstairs. You know you are nothing. And you know that not-to-be and not-to-have give an immeasurable freedom.

You must do the thing you think you cannot do.

When you cease to make a contribution you begin to die.

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, "I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along." . . . You must do the thing you think you cannot do.

It is better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness.

People grow through experience if they meet life honestly and courageously. This is how character is built.

Do what you feel in your heart to be right - for you'll be criticized anyway. You'll be damned if you do and damned if you don't.