Cynicism is humor in ill health.

In all ages, far back into prehistory, we find human beings have painted and adorned themselves.

The true sweetness of chess, if it ever can be sweet, is to see a victory snatched, by some happy impertinence, out of the shadow of apparently irrevocable disaster.

The man was running away with the rest, and selling his papers for a shilling each as he ran—a grotesque mingling of profit and panic.

Beauty is in the heart of the beholder.

He spares no resource in telling of his dead inventions... Bare verbs he rarely tolerates. He splits infinitives and fills them up with adverbial stuffing. He presses the passing colloquialism into his service. His vast paragraphis sweat and struggle; the

Nature never appeals to intelligence until habit and instinct are useless. There is no intelligence where there is no need of change.