Beauty Is Ever To The Lonely Mind

Any Man Worth His Salt Has By The Time He Is Forty-five Accumulated A Crown Of Thorns, And The Problem Is To Learn To Wear It Over One Ear.

No One Appreciates The Very Special Genius Of Your Conversation As The Dog Does.

Beauty Is Ever To The Lonely Mind A Shadow Fleeting; She Is Never Plain. She Is A Visitor Who Leaves Behind The Gift Of Grief, The Souvenir Of Pain.

Everybody Thinks Of Others As Being Excessively Human, With All The Frailties And Crotchets Appertaining To That Curious Condition. But Each Of Us Also Seems To Regard Himself As Existing On A Detached Plane Of Observation, Exempt (save In Moments Of Avid Crisis) From The Strange Whims Of Humanity En Masse.

Happiness Is Surely The Best Teacher Of Good Manners: Only The Unhappy Are Churlish In Deportment.