I know of no more disagreeable sensation than to be left feeling generally angry without anybody in particular to be angry at.

We do not mind our not arriving anywhere nearly so much as our not having any company on the way.

Distaste sounds more emphatic when expressed as moral disapproval. With most of us the moral counterblast is nothing more than the angry rendering of a yawn.

There ought to be some sign in a book about man, that the writer knows thoroughly one man at least.

Men will confess to treason, murder, arson, false teeth, or a wig. How many of them will own up to a lack of humor?

The New York playgoer is a child of nature, and he has an honest and wholesome regard of whatever is atrocious in art.

The world is a play that would not be worth seeing if we knew the plot.