“A stale article, if you dip it in a good, warm, sunny smile, will go off better than a fresh one that you've scowled upon.”
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The only sensible ends of literature are, first, the pleasurable toil of writing second, the gratification of one's family and friends and lastly, the solid cash.
Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.
We sometimes congratulate ourselves at the moment of waking from a troubled dream it may be so the moment after death.
Nobody, I think, ought to read poetry, or look at pictures or statues, who cannot find a great deal more in them than the poet or artist has actually expressed. Their highest merit is suggestiveness.