the pleasure of possession, whether we possess trinkets, or offspring - or possibly books, or prints, or chessmen, or postage stamps - lies in showing these things to friends who are experiencing no immediate urge to look at them.

Wit is the salt of conversation, not the food, and few things in the world are more wearying than a sarcastic attitude towards life.

There is always a secret irritation about a laugh in which we cannot join

What strange impulse is it which induces otherwise truthful people to say they like music when they do not, and thus expose themselves to hours of boredom?

We are tethered to our kind, and may as well join hands in the struggle.

The delusions of the past seem fond and foolish. The delusions of the present seem subtle and sane.

Letters form a by-path of literature, a charming, but occasional, retreat for people of cultivated leisure.