The obscurest epoch is to-day.

Had be been Shakespeare, he would then have written Troilus and Cressidato brand the offending sex; but being only a little dog, he began to bite them.

Every man has a sane spot somewhere.

Live life to the fullest.

Well, well, Henry James is pretty good, though he is of the nineteenth century, and that glaringly.

There is no progress whatever. Everything is just the same as it was thousands, and tens of thousands, of years ago. The outward form changes. The essence does not change.

To the old our mouths are always partly closed; we must swallow our obvious retorts and listen. They sit above our heads, on life's raised dais, and appeal at once to our respect and pity.