Man seems to be a rickety poor sort of thing, any way you take him; a kind of British Museum of infirmities and inferiorities. He is always undergoing repairs. A machine that was as unreliable as he is would have no market.

Delicacy - a sad, sad false delicacy - robs literature of the two best things among its belongings: Family-circle narratives & obscene stories.

There are no grades of vanity; there are only grades of ability in concealing it.

Tough times teach trust.

Learn from the mistakes of others - you won't live long enough to make them all yourself. He's opposed to millionaires, but it would be dangerous to offer him the position.

We adore titles and heredities in our hearts and ridicule them with our mouths. This is our democratic privilege.

The Public is merely a multiplied 'me.'