happiness is very difficult.

0lnwb791

It is said that a foreign photographer, mixed in the crowded streets,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], photographed the faces of 100 pedestrian, photos, washed out, even he was surprised faces of all of these photos is not even a smile, they or pensive, or look at a loss, or worried, or restlessness, as if everyone has a heavy mind.
also heard of such a parable: A king that they are unhappy, always feel very distressed. Later, he heard people say, happy people wearing the shirt will be happy together,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], so the king ordered the people to find happiness. After a long hard search, finally found a happy man, and that happy people,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], four walls, the body does not King was very disappointed ... ...
Aesop's fable of the man is defined as: early years, the character of a horse, both impulsive and headstrong, count on rational,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], bent; middle as hard as a bull, hard; old age is consistent with the characteristics of the dog, irritability, withdrawal, and disgust can not give him all the comfort and meet the people and things. Let us whether such a definition is correct, but people can feel both in the early years, middle-aged or old age, happiness is very difficult.
Is Happiness is like a smile in the photo the photographer and the king illusory The answer is no. Roman? Roland said:
British The eighty thousand in the application letter from the named its four best answer: (1) work just completed, whistling his appreciation of the artist; (2) is building sand castles with the children; (3) for infants mother taking a bath; (4) worked extremely hard after the surgery, and finally saved the distress the patient surgeon. The answer from the four we found that happiness is the need for innocence, love, work and success. So,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], with love and innocence to work,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], the pursuit of success, who can not have happy? Previous: Abandoned and left women Next: Money and Poetry

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The driver clambered into his seat, clicked his tongue, and we went downhill. The brake squeaked horribly from time to time. At the foot he eased off the noisy mechanism and said, turning half round on his box--
"We shall see some more of them by-and-by."
"More idiots? How many of them are there, then?" I asked.
"There's four of them--children of a farmer near Ploumar here. . . . The parents are dead now," he added, after a while. "The grandmother lives on the farm. In the daytime they knock about on this road, and they come home at dusk along with the cattle. . . . It's a good farm."
We saw the other two: a boy and a girl, as the driver said. They were dressed exactly alike, in shapeless garments with petticoat-like skirts. The imperfect thing that lived within them moved those beings to howl at us from the top of the bank, where they sprawled amongst the tough stalks of furze. Their cropped black heads stuck out from the bright yellow wall of countless small blossoms. The faces were purple with the strain of yelling; the voices sounded blank and cracked like a mechanical imitation of old people's voices; and suddenly ceased when we turned into a lane.
I saw them many times in my wandering about the country. They lived on that road, drifting along its length here and there, according to the inexplicable impulses of their monstrous darkness. They were an offence to the sunshine, a reproach to empty heaven, a blight on the concentrated and purposeful vigour of the wild landscape. In time the story of their parents shaped itself before me out of the listless answers to my questions, out of the indifferent words heard in wayside inns or on the very road those idiots haunted. Some of it was told by an emaciated and sceptical old fellow with a tremendous whip, while we trudged together over the sands by the side of a two-wheeled cart loaded with dripping seaweed. Then at other times other people confirmed and completed the story: till it stood at last before me, a tale formidable and simple, as they always are, those disclosures of obscure trials endured by ignorant hearts.