Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.

God will forgive me. It's his job.

The devil take these people and their language! They take a dozen monosyllabic words in their jaws, chew them, crunch them and spit them out again, and call that speaking. Fortunately they are by nature fairly silent, and although they gaze at us open-mouthed, they spare us long conversations.

You cannot feed the hungry on statistics.

God will pardon me. It is His trade.

First, I thought, almost despairing, This must crush my spirit now; Yet I bore it, and am bearing- Only do not ask me how.

Where books are burnt, men finish up being burnt too.