There is far too much talk of love and grief benumbing the faculties, turning the hair gray, and destroying a man's interest in his work. Grief has made many a man look younger.

Terrible and sublime thought, that every moment is supreme for some man and woman, every hour the apotheosis of some passion!

The artist in his teens who is happy is a charlatan. Life comes bursting in all around lis too suddenly, too crudely, too cruelly, for happiness.

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.

The world is not interested in the storms you encountered, but did you bring in the ship?

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

A young man must let his ideas grow, not be continually rooting them up to see how they are getting on.