Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant. It is wiser not to stir them.

He's like one of those weird birds in India who dissolve themselves into thin air and nip through space in a sort of disembodied way and assemble the parts again just where they want them. I've got a cousin who's what they call a Theosophist, and he says he's often nearly worked the thing himself, but couldn't quite bring it off, probably owing to having fed in his boyhood on the flesh of animals slain in anger and pie.

There's too much of that where-every-prospect-pleases-and-only-man-is-vile stuff buzzing around for my taste.

...there occurred to me the simple epitaph which, when I am no more, I intend to have inscribed on my tombstone. It was this: "He was a man who acted from the best motives. There is one born every minute.

Chumps always make the best husbands. When you marry, Sally, grab a chump. Tap his head first, and if it rings solid, don't hesitate. All the unhappy marriages come from husbands having brains. What good are brains to a man? They only unsettle him.

I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.

Woman is the unfathomable, incalculable mystery, the problem we men can never hope to solve.