We are always children to our mothers.

It is no good to think that other people are out to serve our interests.

Parents have too little respect for their children, just as the children have too much for the parents.

I wonder the human race has been so fond of migrations, when the young take so hardly to traveling.

Our desires have a way of getting bigger with our incomes.

Most of the pleasure of making a book would go if it held nothing to be shared by other people. I would write for a few dozen people, and sometimes it seems that I do so, but I would not write for no-one.

Dear, dear, the miniature world of the family! All the emotions of mankind seem to find a place in it.