... books are too heterogeneous an interest to furnish a vital one in life, a reason for being alive.

A man is more than one being in his life. If the last persists, why not the first? If there be a hereafter for his age, why not for his youth?

Fame compensates for a column of wants.

New York has always prided itself on its bad manners. That is the real source of our strength.

The final result of too much routine is death in life.

Did any great genius ever enter the world in the wake of commonplace pre-natal conditions? Was a maker of history ever born amidst the pleasant harmonies of a satisfied domesticity? Of a mother who was less than remarkable, although she may have escaped being great? Did a woman with no wildness in her blood ever inform a brain with electric fire? The students of history know that while many mothers of great men have been virtuous, none have been commonplace, and few have been happy.

In times of panic man seems to exchange his soul for a tail.