A "classic" is a book that everybody praises but nobody has read

Where every man in a state has a vote, brutal laws are impossible.

A habit cannot be tossed out the window; it must be coaxed down the stairs a step at a time.

There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope. We give them a turn and they make new and curious combinations. We keep on turning and making new combinations indefinitely; but they are the same old pieces of colored glass that have been in use through all the ages.

In the ancient city of London, on a certain autumn day in the second quarter of the sixteenth century, a boy was born to a poor family of the name of Canty, who did not want him.

My books are like water; those of the great geniuses are wine. (Fortunately) everybody drinks water.

Well, my book is written-let it go. But if it were only to write over again there wouldn't be so many things left out. They burn in me; and they keep multiplying; but now they can't ever be said. And besides, they would require a library-and a pen warmed up in hell.