While to live in the past and think of what was good and beautiful about it amounts to a sort of seasoning of the present, the perennial wait for tomorrow is bound to result in chronic discontent that poisons one's entire outlook.
I find it impossible to think of a picture save as a window, and my first concern about a window is to find out what it looks out on. . . and there is nothing I love so much as something which stretches away from me out of sight.