Nothing puts things in perspective as quickly as a mountain.

There were people whose only interest in life was writing letters. To the newspapers, to authors, to strangers, to City Councils, to the police. It did not much matter to whom; the satisfaction of writing seemed to be all.

Nothing great ever came out of common sense.

You can't have a tin can tied to your tail and go through life pretending it isn't there.

Riches ... don't consist in having things, but in not having to do something you don't want to do. ... Riches is being able to thumb your nose.

Nothing in this world came out of satisfaction. Except the human race.

That was the way with grief: it left you alone for months together until you thought that you were cured, and then without warning it blotted out the sunlight.