When elderly invalids meet with fellow-victims of their own ailments, then at last real conversation begins, and life is delicious.

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

Don't laugh at youth for his affectations; he is only trying on one face after another to find his own.

A slight touch of friendly malice and amusement towards those we love keeps our affections for them from turning flat.

Whiskey has killed more men than bullets, but most men would rather be full of whiskey than bullets.

What pursuit is more elegant than that of collecting the ignominies of our nature and transfixing them for show, each on the bright pin of a polished phrase?

An echo of music, a face in the street, the wafer of the new moon, a wanton thought - only in the iridescence of things the vagabond soul is happy.