Neither a garden nor a gardener can be made in one year, nor in one generation even.

Why is it that so many people think that charity consists in giving away merely what they cannot use instead of the article the recipient needs?

Imagine how terrifying it would be if we had to decide the beginnings of things for ourselves: as to what race we should belong, what sex, and all that, instead of placidly coming out of unconsciousness to find it all arranged!

I have always noticed that when people consider others eccentric, it is because they are reveling in some form of enjoyment that their critics can neither compass nor share.

Why has no one written a November rhapsody with plenty of lilt and swing? The poets who are moved at all by this month seem only stirred to lamentation, giving us year end and 'melancholy days' remarks, thereby showing that theory is stronger than observation among the rhyming brotherhood, or else that they have chronic indigestion and no gardens to stimulate them.

Surely there is no greater garden for human-nature study than the flotsam and jetsam of the hospital.

what is life worth if one has nothing to give away? This lack, it seems to me, must be the sharpest pang of poverty.