Perhaps Samuel Johnson was a great man; he was certainly a drumbling one.

Man pines to live but cannot endure the days of his life.

Man hoards himself when he has nothing to give away.

No people require maxims so much as the American. The reason is obvious: the country is so vast, the people always going somewhere, from Oregon apple valley to boreal New England, that we do not know whether to be temperate orchards or sterile climate.

Recognize the cunning man not by the corpses he pays homage to but by the living writers he conspires against with the most shameful weapon, Silence, or the briefest review.

Those who write for lucre or fame are grosser than the cartel robbers, for they steal the genius of the people, which is its will to resist evil.

To write is a humiliation.