The cat of the slums and alleys, starved, outcast, harried, still keeps amid the prowlings of its adversity the bold, free, panther-tread with which it paced of yore the temple courts of Thebes, still displays the self-reliant watchfulness which man has never taught it to lay aside.

I hate babies. They're so human.

Children with Hyacinth's temperament don't know better as they grow older; they merely know more.

No one can be an unbeliever nowadays. The Christian apologists have left one nothing to disbelieve.

The cat is domestic only as far as suits its own ends.

It's no use growing older if you only learn new ways of misbehaving yourself.

Great Socialist statesmen aren't made, they're still-born.