Life is full of its disappointments, and I suppose the art of being happy is to disguise them as illusions.

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

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

There are certain fixed rules that one observes for one's own comfort. For instance, never be flippantly rude to any inoffensive grey-bearded stranger that you may meet in pine forests or hotel smoking-rooms on the Continent. It always turns out to be the King of Sweden.

Think how many blameless lives are brightened by the blazing indiscretions of other people.

Mother, may I go and maffick, Tear around and hinder traffic?

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.