We all like people who do things, even if we only see their faces on cigar-box lids.

The dead might as well try to speak to the living as the old to the young.

[Mark Twain] is still the rough, awkward, good-natured boy who swore at the deck hands when he was three years old. Thoroughly likeable as a good fellow, but impossible as a man of letters.

A man long accustomed to admire his wife in general, seldom pauses to admire her in a particular gown or attitude, unless his attention is directed to her by the appreciative gaze of another man.

I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived.

There was a new kind of strength in the gravity of her face, and her colors still gave her that look of deep-seated health and ardor.

Human relationships are the tragic necessity of human life; that they can never be wholly satisfactory, that every ego is half the time greedily seeking them, and half the time pulling away from them.