“Foolish men imagine that because judgment for an evil thing is delayed, there is no justice; but only accident here below. Judgment for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two, some century or two, but it is sure as life, it is sure as death.”

Who is it that loves me and will love me forever with an affection which no chance, no misery, no crime of mine can do away? It is you, my mother.

Silence is more eloquent than words.

The merit of originality is not novelty; it is sincerity.

The first duty of man is to conquer fear; he must get rid of it, he cannot act till then.

Teach a parrot the terms ‘supply and demand’ and you’ve got an economist.

Love is not altogether a Delirium, says he elsewhere; “yet has it many points in common therewith.”

Democracy means despair of finding any heroes to govern you, and contented putting up with the want of them.

A man protesting against error is on the way towards uniting himself with all men that believe in truth.

Do not be embarrassed by your mistakes. Nothing can teach us better than our understanding of them. This is one of the best ways of self-education.

The past is always attractive because it is drained of fear.

There is precious instruction to be got by finding we were wrong.

A laugh, to be joyous, must flow from a joyous heart, for without kindness, there can be no true joy.

Everywhere in life, the true question is not what we gain, but what we do.

He who has health, has hope; and he who has hope, has everything.

Once the mind has been expanded by a big idea, it will never go back to its original state.

Old age is not a matter for sorrow. It is matter for thanks if we have left our work done behind us.

To be willing to die for an idea is to set a rather high price on conjecture.

If it wasn’t for baseball, I’d be in either the penitentiary or the cemetery. I have the same violent temper my father and older brother had. Both died of injuries from street fights in Baltimore, fights begun by flare-ups of their tempers.

To finish is sadness to a writer — a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn’t really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.

His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

Until the day she died, my mother continued to fight for the rights of women. She joined all the women’s movements of the time; she stirred up a lot of revolts. She was a great woman, a great figure. Women today would like her immensely.

All life was a breath exhaled by God. All dying was a breath inhaled by God.

To die is to go into the Collective Unconscious, to lose oneself in order to be transformed into form, pure form.

Death is in truth an illness from which we recover