Most people sell their souls, and live with a good conscience on the proceeds.

Growing old is not a gradual decline, but a series of drops, full of sorrow, from one ledge to another below it.

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

We should nourish our souls on the dew of Poesy, and manure them as well.

It is through the cracks in our brains that ecstasy creeps in.

The denunciation of the young is a necessary part of the hygiene of older people, and greatly assists the circulation of the blood.

If we shake hands with icy fingers, it is because we have burnt them so horribly before.