George Santayana
Given the thin fact sheet, the biography below runs somewhat under the target word count rather than risk inventing unsupported claims.
George Santayana was born on December 16, 1863, on San Bernardo street in Madrid, Spain. He worked across his life as a philosopher, essayist, novelist, poet, and university teacher, composing in both English and Spanish. He held Spanish citizenship throughout his life, and he died in Rome on September 26, 1952.
His education took him across several institutions and countries. He attended Boston Latin School before going on to Harvard College and Harvard University. His studies also brought him to the Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin and to King's College, a range of schooling that stretched across both sides of the Atlantic.
As a writer, Santayana moved between forms with evident range. He produced philosophy, essays, poetry, and fiction, and he worked in two languages across a career that lasted well into the twentieth century. That combination of roles — philosopher and poet, essayist and novelist — placed him at an unusual intersection within the intellectual life of his era.
He died in Rome on September 26, 1952, at the age of eighty-eight. His life had begun on San Bernardo street in Madrid and ended in a city far from his birthplace, closing a span of nearly nine decades during which he had written in English and Spanish alike.
Quotes by George Santayana
George Santayana's insights on:

We need sometimes to escape into open solitudes, into aimlessness, into the moral holiday of running some pure hazard in order to sharpen the edge of life, to taste hardship, and to be compelled to work desperately for a moment at no matter what.”

The young man who has not wept is savage, and the old man who will not laugh is a fool.

Beauty as we feel it is something indescribable: what is or what it means can never be said.

To delight in war is a merit in the soldier, a dangerous quality in the captain and a positive crime in the statesman.

The irrational in the human has something about it altogether repulsive and terrible, as we see in the maniac, the miser, the drunkard or the ape.

England is the paradise of individuality, eccentricity, heresy, anomalies, hobbies, and humors.

To understand one's self is the classic form of consolation; to delude one's self is the romantic.

Before you contradict an old man, my fair friend, you should endeavour to understand him.

