The good Lord didn't create anything without a purpose, but the fly comes close.

I have spent most of my life worrying about things that have never happened.

This is the year 1492. I am eighty-two years of age. The things I am going to tell you are things which I saw myself as a child and as a youth.

In all the ages, three-fourths of the support of the great charities has been conscience money.

The highest perfection of politeness is only a beautiful edifice, built, from the base to the dome, of ungraceful and gilded forms of charitable and unselfish lying.

Who is this Renaissance? Where did he come from? Who gave him permission to cram the Republic with his execrable daubs?

He does not care for flowers. Calls them rubbish, and cannot tell one from another, and thinks it is superior to feel like that.