Who ever heard, indeed, of an autobiography that was not (interesting)? I can recall none in all the literature of the world
A bad man is the sort who weeps every time he speaks of a good woman.
I hate all sports as rabidly as a person who likes sports hates common sense.
There are men so philosophical that they can see humor in their own toothaches. But there has never lived a man so philosophical that he could see the toothache in his own humor.
I know of no human being who has a better time than an eager and energetic young reporter.
A man's women folk, whatever their outward show of respect for his merit and authority, always regard him secretly as an ass, and with something akin to pity.
Two simple principles lie at the bottom of the whole matter, and they may be precipitated into two rules. The first is that, when there is a choice, the milder drink is always the better-not merely the safer but the better. The second is that no really enlightened drinker ever takes a drink at a time when he has any work to do. There is, of course, more to it than this; but these are sufficient for the beginner, and even the virtuoso never outgrows them.
Great artists are modest almost as seldom as they are faithful to their wives.
What is the professor's function? To pass on to numskulls a body of so-called knowledge that is fragmentary, unimportant, and largely untrue.
The notion that science does not concern itself with first causes - that it leaves the field to theology or metaphysics, and confines itself to mere effects - this notion has no support in the plain facts. If it could, science would explain the origin of life on earth at once - and there is every reason to believe that it will do so on some not too remote tomorrow. To argue that gaps in knowledge which will confront the seeker must be filled, not by patient inquiry, but by intuition or revelation, is simply to give ignorance a gratuitous and preposterous dignity.
The great difficulty about keeping the Ten Commandments is that no man can keep them and be a gentleman.
It is almost impossible for an Anglo-Saxon to write of sex without being dirty.
I write in order to attain that feeling of tension relieved and function achieved which a cow enjoys on giving milk.
To be happy one must be (a) well fed, unhounded by sordid cares, at ease in Zion, (b) full of a comfortable feeling of superiority to the masses of one's fellow men, and (c) delicately and unceasingly amused according to one's taste. It is my contention that, if this definition be accepted, there is no country in the world wherein a man constituted as I am - a man of my peculiar weakness, vanities, appetites, and aversions - can be so happy as he can be in the United States.
There is no record in human history of a happy philosopher: they exist only in romantic legend.
The highfalutin aims of democracy, whether real or imaginary, are always assumed to be identical with its achievements. This, of course, is sheer hallucination. Not one of those aims, not even the aim of giving every adult a vote, has been realized. It has no more made men wise and free than Christianity has made them good.
There are no ugly cigars, only ugly smokers.
The common notion that free speech prevails in the United States always makes me laugh.
Every man sees in his relatives, and especially in his cousins, a series of grotesque caricatures of himself.
The essence of self-fulfillment and autonomous culture is an unshakable egotism.
There is a saying in Baltimore that crabs may be prepared in fifty ways and that all of them are good.
When I hear a man applauded by the mob I always feel a pang of pity for him. All he has to do to be hissed is to live long enough.
Complete masculinity and stupidity are often indistinguishable.
No man could bring himself to reveal his true character, and, above all, his true limitations as a citizen and a Christian, his true meannesses, his true imbecilities, to his friends, or even to his wife. Honest autobiography is therefore a contradiction in terms: the moment a man considers himself, even in petto, he tries to gild and fresco himself. Thus a man's wife, however realistic her view of him, always flatters him in the end, for the worst she sees in him is appreciably better, by the time she sees it, than what is actually there.
The curse of man, and the cause of nearly all his woe, is his stupendous capacity for believing the incredible.
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