It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the worst, and so grow gently old down all the unchanging days, and die one day like any other day, only shorter.

To restore silence is the role of objects.

To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.

Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.

To what will love not stoop!

How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones?

All mankind is us, whether we like it or not.