A curious thing about written literature: It is about four thousand years old, but we have no way of knowing whether four thousand years constitutes senility or the maiden blush of youth.

Tis e'er the lot of the innocent in the world, to fly to the wolf for succor from the lion.

If you would learn a thing, straightway declare yourself a professor of it!

I admire writers who can make complicated things simple, but my own talent has been to make simple things complicated.

Self knowledge is always bad news.

It is often pleasant to stone a martyr, no matter how much we may admire him.

Yet everyone begins in the same place; how is it that most go along without difficulty but a few lose their way?