For My Part, The Good Novel Of

Now The Pessimist Proper Is The Most Modest Of Men. ... Under No Circumstances Does He Presume To Imagine That He, A Mere Unit Of Pain, Can In Any Degree Change Or Soften The Remorseless Words Of Fate.

The Labors Of The True Critic Are More Essential To The Author, Even, Than To The Reader.

Abroad It Is Our Habit To Regard All Other Travelers In The Light Of Personal And Unpardonable Grievances. They Are Intruders Into Our Chosen Realms Of Pleasure, They Jar Upon Our Sensibilities, They Lessen Our Meager Share Of Comforts, They Are Everywhere In Our Way, They Are Always An Unnecessary Feature In The Landscape.

But Self-satisfaction, If As Buoyant As Gas, Has An Ugly Trick Of Collapsing When Full Blown, And Facts Are Stony Things That Refuse To Melt Away In The Sunshine Of A Smile.

I Am Eighty Years Old. There Seems To Be Nothing To Add To This Statement. I Have Reached The Age Of Undecorated Facts - Facts That Refuse To Be Softened By Sentiment, Or Confused By Nobility Of Phrase.