We like, we cherish, we are very, very fond of—but we never love again.

The odour of Burgundy, and the smell of French sauces, and the sight of clean napkins and long loaves, knocked as a very welcome visitor at the door of our inner man.

It is so pleasant to come across people more stupid than ourselves. We love them at once for being so.

It seems to me so shocking to see the precious hours of a man's life - the priceless moments that will never come back to him again - being wasted in a mere brutish sleep.

Being poor is a mere trifle. It is being known to be poor that is the sting.

It is in our faults and failings, not in our virtues, that we touch one another and find sympathy. We differ widely enough in our nobler qualities. It is in our follies that we are at one.

One we discover how to appreciate the timeless values in our daily experiences, we can enjoy the best things in life.