Every father knows at once too much and too little about his own son.
There are no little things. "Little things," so called, are the hinges of the universe.
I hate the word proper. If you tell me a thing is not proper, I immediately feel the most rabid desire to go 'neck and heels' into it.
The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
Everything in the country, animate and inanimate, seems to whisper, be serene, be kind, be happy. We grow tolerant there unconsciously.
Nowhere more than in New York does the contest between squalor and splendor so sharply present itself.