A man who can be entertaining for a full day will be in his grave by night-fall.
Who has enough credit in this world to pay for his mistakes?
A painter can hang his pictures, but a writer can only hang himself.
Genius, like truth, has a shabby and neglected mien.
We are ruled by chance but never have enough patience to accept its despotism.
The ruin of the human heart is self-interest, which the American merchant calls self-service. We have become a self-service populace, and all our specious comforts -the automatic elevator, the escalator, the cafeteria -are depriving us of volition and moral and physical energy.