Our dogs will love and admire the meanest of us, and feed our colossal vanity with their uncritical homage.

It has been wisely said that we cannot really love anybody at whom we never laugh.

It is bad enough to be bad, but to be bad in bad taste is unpardonable.

There is a vast deal of make-believe in the carefully nurtured sentiment for country life, and the barefoot boy, and the mountain girl.

[Mary Wortley Montagu] wrote more letters, with fewer punctuation marks, than any Englishwoman of her day; and her nephew, the fourth Baron Rokeby, nearly blinded himself in deciphering the two volumes of undated correspondence which were printed in 1810. Two more followed in 1813, after which the gallant Baron either died at his post or was smitten with despair; for sixty-eight cases of letters lay undisturbed ... 'Les morts n'écrivent point,' said Madame de Maintenon hopefully; but of what benefit is this inactivity, when we still continue to receive their letters?

Conversation between Adam and Eve must have been difficult at times, because they had nobody to talk about.

The cat dwells within the circle of her own secret thoughts.