Life, I fancy, would very often be insupportable, but for the luxury of self compassion.

Have the courage of your desire.

Life, I fancy, would very often be insupportable, but for the luxury of self compassion.

For one thing, I know every book of mine by its scent.

Money is time. With money I buy for cheerful use the hours which otherwise would not in any sense be mine; nay, which would make me their miserable bondsman.

Money is made at Christmas out of holly and mistletoe, but who save the vendors would greatly care if no green branch were procurable?

And why should any man who writes, even if he writes things immortal, nurse anger at the world's neglect? Who asked him to publish? Who promised him a hearing? Who has broken faith with him? Your poem, your novel, who bargained with you for it?