There is a strange and mighty race of people called the Americans who are rapidly becoming the coldest in the world because of this cruel, man-eating idol, lucre.

The newspaper has debauched the American until he is a slavish, simpering, and angerless citizen; it has taught him to be a lump mass-man toward fraud, simony, murder, and lunacies more vile than those of Commodus or Caracalla.

The earnings of a poet could be reckoned by a metaphysician rather than a bookkeeper.

Every decision you make is a mistake.

It is hideous and coarse to assume that we can do something for others-and it is vile not to endeavor to do it.

What has a writer to be bombastic about? Whatever good a man may write is the consequence of accident, luck, or surprise, and nobody is more surprised than an honest writer when he makes a good phrase or says something truthful.

A man who can be entertaining for a full day will be in his grave by night-fall.