The present age, for all its cosmopolitan hustle, is curiously suburban in spirit.

How often could things be remedied by a word. How often is it left unspoken.

Shall I give you my recipe for happiness? I find everything useful and nothing indispensable. I find everything wonderful and nothing miraculous. I reverence the body. I avoid first causes like the plague.

A man can believe a considerable deal of rubbish, and yet go about his daily work in a rational and cheerful manner.

There is a kinship, a kind of freemasonry, between all persons of intelligence, however antagonistic their moral outlook.

They who are all things to their neighbors cease to be anything to themselves.

Wine is a precarious aphrodisiac, and its fumes have blighted many a mating.