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?

How sick one gets of being "good," how much I should respect myself if I could burst out and make everyone wretched for twenty-four hours; embody selfishness.

Physical pain however great ends in itself and falls away like dry husks from the mind, whilst moral discords and nervous horrors sear the soul.

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

Though I have no productive worth, I have a certain value as an indestructible quantity.

How fatally the entire want of humor cripples the mind.

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