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?

Money is made at Christmas out of holly and mistletoe, but who save the vendors would greatly care if no green branch were procurable? One symbol, indeed, has obscured all others-the minted round of metal. And one may safely say that, of all the ages since a coin first became the symbol of power, ours is that in which it yields to the majority of its possessors the poorest return in heart's contentment.

A pipe for the hour of work; a cigarette for the hour of conception; a cigar for the hour of vacuity.

Parks are but pavement disguised with a growth of grass.

It is familiarity with life that makes time speed quickly. When every day is a step in the unknown, as for children, the days are long with gathering of experience . . .

I have the happiness of a passing moment, and what more can mortal ask?

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