But we are all insane, anyway ... The suicides seem to be the only sane people.

It is human life. We are blown upon the world; we float buoyantly upon the summer air a little while, complacently showing off our grace of form and our dainty iridescent colors; then we vanish with a little puff, leaving nothing behind but a memory - and sometimes not even that. I suppose that at those solemn times when we wake in the deeps of the night and reflect, there is not one of us who is not willing to confess that he is really only a soap-bubble, and as little worth the making.

When your friends begin to flatter you on how young you look, it's a sure sign you're getting old.

For the majority of us, the past is a regret, the future an experiment

God, so atrocious in the Old Testament, so attractive in the New--the Jekyl and Hyde of sacred romance.

Nevertheless we have this curious spectacle: daily the trained parrot in the pulpit gravely delivers himself of these ironies, which he has acquired at second-hand and adopted without examination, to a trained congregation which accepts them without examination, and neither the speaker nor the hearer laughs at himself. It does seem as if we ought to be humble when we are at a bench-show, and not put on airs of intellectual superiority there.

The timid man yearns for full value and demands a tenth. The bold man strikes for double value and compromises on par.