We are never ripe till we have been made so by suffering.
An oyster, that marvel of delicacy, that concentration of sapid excellence, that mouthful bwefore all other mouthfuls, who first had faith to believe it, and courage to execute? The exterior is not persuasive.
It is not work that kills men; it is worry. Worry is rust upon the blade.
Books are the windows through which the soul looks out.
Too much looking backward ... is bad for progress.
To the covetous man life is a nightmare, and God lets him wrestle with it as best he may.