The gain isn't counted to the recluse and inactive that, having nothing to measure themselves by and never being tested by failure, they simmer and soak perpetually in conscious complacency.

The difficulty about all this dying, is that you can't tell a fellow anything about it, so where does the fun come in?

What sense of superiority it gives one to escape reading some book which every one else is reading.

Destitution and excessive luxury develop apparently the same ideals, the same marauding attitude towards mankind, the intensity of struggle for material goods, -- surely showing how perfect is the meeting of extremes.

I make it a rule always to believe compliments implicitly for five minutes, and to simmer gently for twenty more.

Notwithstanding the poverty of my outside experience, I have always had a significance for myself, and every chance to stumle along my straight and narrow little path, and to worship at the feet of my Deity, and what more can a human soul ask for?

It is so comic to hear oneself called old, even at ninety I suppose!