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.

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.

People don't ever seem to realize that doing what's right, writes no guarantee against misfortune.

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

The wives who are not deserted, but who have to feed and clothe and comfort and scold and advise, are the true objects of commiseration; wives whose existence is given over to a ceaseless vigil of cantankerous affection.

An Englishman never takes his collar off when he is writing. How can you expect him to show you his soul?

The worldly relations of men and women often form an equation that cancels out without warning when some insignificant factor has been added to either side.