A proper autobiography is a death-bed confession.

Our mothers are racked with the pains of our physical birth; we ourselves suffer the longer pains of our spiritual growth.

It is only that my illusion is more real to me than reality. And so do we often build our world on an error, and cry out that the universe is falling to pieces, if any one but lift a finger to replace the error by truth.

I have so little mastered the art of tranquil living that wherever I go I trail storm clouds of drama around me.

The apex of my civic pride and personal contentment was reached on the bright September morning when I entered the public school.

The past was only my cradle, and now it cannot hold me, because I am grown too big.

What we get in steerage is not the refuse, but the sinew and bone of all the nations.