O money, money, how blindly thou hast been worshipped, and how stupidly abused! Thou are health and liberty and strength, and he that has thee may rattle his pockets at the foul fiend!

We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.

English physicians kill you, the French let you die.

There was a little man, and he had a little soul; And he said, Little Soul, let us try, try, try!

This very night I am going to leave off tobacco! Surely there must be some other world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be realised.

Damn the age. I'll write for antiquity.

Who first invented work, and bound the free And holiday-rejoicing spirit down . . . . To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood? . . . . Sabbathless Satan!