I think that if I get into the habit of writing a bit about what happens, or rather doesn't happen, I may lose a little of the sense of isolation and desolation which abides with me. My circumstances allowing of nothing but the ejaculation of one-syllabled reflections, a written monologue by that most interesting being, myself, may have its yet to be discovered consolations.

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.

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

How fatally the entire want of humor cripples the mind.

You must remember that a woman, by nature, needs much less to feed upon than a man, a few emotions and she is satisfied.

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.

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