The final mystery is oneself.

I made art a philosophy, and philosophy an art.

The tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but self denial.

True contentment is not having everything, but in being satisfied with everything you have.

They have been eating muffins. That looks like repentance

I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.