If we haven't a grouch against Fortune, we seem unable to avoid one against ourselves.

If we haven't a grouch against Fortune, we seem unable to avoid one against ourselves.

we are so little, so ignorant, so feeble an infant race crawling on a planet between immensities we haven't even begun to understand, that really we have no grounds for either congratulation or despair.

I am much perturbed by this business of sickness. Our bodies seem so easily to leap into the saddle where our minds should be. People who are ill become changelings.

Why, why, when one writes, does a sort of shackle bind one's imagination? I become conscious of a deadening mediocrity, perhaps a form of mental cowardice, and I long to break free, to let my imagination take wings. It doesn't - yet.

It's the things you don't do, not the things you do, you feel most sorry for.

Progress. There's a good deal too much o' this progress about nowadays, an', what's more, it'll have to stop.