Our bones ache only while the flesh is on them.

One cup poured into another makes different waters; tears shed by one eye would blind if wept into another's eye. The breast we strike in joy is not the breast we strike in pain; any man's smile would be consternation on another's mouth.

None of us suffers as much as we should, or loves as much as we say. Love is the first lie; wisdom the last.

The unendurable is the beginning of the curve of joy.

This head has risen above its hair in a moment of abandon known only to men who have drawn their feet out of their boots to walk awhile in the corridors of the mind.

When one wants to become cognizant of the color and the texture of the soil, one does not get a ladder; one gets a shovel. When one wants to get into touch with the texture of the universal mind, one does not go to Boston; one goes to the Bowery.

A man's sorrow runs uphill; true it is difficult for him to bear, but it is also difficult for him to keep.