Human experience is usually paradoxical.

It is easy to say how we love new friends, and what we think of them, but words can never trace out all the fibers that knit us to the old.

Childhood is only the beautiful and happy time in contemplation and retrospect: to the child it is full of deep sorrows, the meaning of which is unknown.

Our selfishness is so robust and many-clutching that, well encouraged, it easily devours all sustenance away from our poor little scruples.

Blessed is the influence of one true, loving human soul on another.

Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. Even with no motive to be false, it is very hard to say the exact truth.

But what is opportunity to the man who can't use it?