Oh, time betrays us. Time is the great enemy.

Nature is not silent, and never was a name more derisively inappropriate than when we speak of these non-human creatures who hoot and crow and bray as the dumb animals.

I am fierce for work. Without work I am nothing.

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.

Oh, time betrays us. Time is the great enemy.

A sense of humor is so handy, isn't it? It lets you see both sides of a question so that you never need do anything.

Youth knows no remedy for grief but death.