It really seems as if failure and hardship make more of a human being of folks than success.

I write as the birds sing, because I must, and usually from the same source of inspiration.

Money was their God; work their religion.

I do not know why it is the fate of the world always to want something different from what life gives them.

we know by the odour that occasionally we are visited by skunks, which are not poetic but very beautiful.

Now what is a guest? A thing of a day! A person who disturbs your routine and interferes with important concerns. Why should any one be grateful for company? Why should time and money be lavished on visitors? They come. You overwork yourself. They go. You are glad of it. You return the visit, because it's the only way to have back at them.

What you are lies with you. If you are lazy, and accept your lot, you may live in it. If you are willing to work, you can write your name anywhere you choose, among the only ones who live beyond the grave in this world, the people who write books that help, make exquisite music, carve statues, paint pictures, and work for others. Never mind the calico dress, and the coarse shoes. Work at you books, and before long you will hear yesterday's tormentors boasting that they were once classmates of yours.