Fear, born of the stern matron Responsibility, sits on one's shoulders like some heavy imp of darkness, and one is preoccupied and, possibly, cantankerous.

There is nothing like an odor to stir memories.

Woman dwell always in the palace of unpalatable truth and never by any chance is there a magic talisman to save them from their destiny. Speech is their ultimate need. We men exist for them only in so far as we can be described.

Responsibility's like a string we can only see the middle of. Both ends are out of sight.

One must choose between obscurity with efficiency, and fame with its inevitable collateral of bluff.

It is so much easier to tell intimate things in the dark.

It is extraordinary how many emotional storms one may weather in safety if one is ballasted with ever so little gold.