The mere process of growing old together will make the slightest acquaintance seem a bosom friend.

So, I never lose a sense of the whimsical and perilous charm of daily life, with its meetings and words and accidents.

There are people who, like houses, are beautiful in dilapidation.

Uncultivated minds are not full of wild flowers, like uncultivated fields. Villainous weeds grow in them and they are the haunt of toads.

The ladies who try to keep their beauty are the ladies who lose it.

There is more felicity on the far side of baldness than young men can possibly imagine.

Our names are labels, plainly printed on the bottled essence of our past behavior.