The society of dead authors has this advantage over that of the living: they never flatter us to our faces, nor slander us behind our backs, nor intrude upon our privacy, nor quit their shelves until we take them down.

Some are cursed with the fullness of satiety; and how can they bear the ills of life when its very pleasures fatigue them?

That author, however, who has thought more than he has read, read more than he has written, and written more than he has published, if he does not command success, has at least deserved it.

It is not until we have passed through the furnace that we are made to know how much dross there is in our composition.

We are more inclined to hate one another for points on which we differ, than to love one another for points on which we agree. The reason perhaps is this: when we find others that agree with us, we seldom trouble ourselves to confirm that agreement; but when we chance on those who differ from us, we are zealous both to convince and to convert them. Our pride is hurt by the failure, and disappointed pride engenders hatred.

The masses procure their opinions ready made in open market.

The excess of our youth are checks written against our age and they are payable with interest thirty years later.