What Humbugs We Are, Who Pretend To

There Are People Who, Like Houses, Are Beautiful In Dilapidation.

It Is The Wretchedness Of Being Rich That You Have To Live With Rich People.

But Why Wasn't I Born, Alas, In An Age Of Adjectives; Why Can One No Longer Write Of Silver-shedding Tears And Moon-tailed Peacocks, Of Eloquent Death, Of The Negro And Star-enameled Night?

Don't Let Young People Tell You Their Aspirations; When They Drop Them They Will Drop You.

I Am One Of The Unpraised, Unrewarded Millions Without Whom Statistics Would Be A Bankrupt Science. It Is We Who Are Born, Who Marry, Who Die, In Constant Ratios.