“It is bad enough to be bad, but to be bad in bad taste is unpardonable.”

The soul begins to travel when the child begins to think.

The great dividing line between books that are made to be read and books that are made to be bought is not the purely modern thing it seems. We can trace it, if we try, back to the first printing-presses.

The tourist may complain of other tourists, but he would be lost without them.

The audience is the controlling factor in the actor’s life. It is practically infallible, since there is no appeal from its verdict. It is a little like a supreme court composed of irresponsible minors.

It was hard to speed the male child up the stony heights of erudition, but it was harder still to check the female child at the crucial point, and keep her tottering decorously behind her brother.

Cats, even when robust, have scant liking for the boisterous society of children, and are apt to exert their utmost ingenuity to escape it. Nor are they without adult sympathy in their prejudice.

Humor brings insight and tolerance. Irony brings a deeper and less friendly understanding.

It is not what we learn in conversation that enriches us. It is the elation that comes of swift contact with tingling currents of thought.

No rural community, no suburban community, can ever possess the distinctive qualities that city dwellers have for centuries given to the world.

The English possess too many agreeable traits to permit them to be as much disliked as they think and hope they are.

There was no escape from the letter-writer who, a hundred or a hundred and twenty-five years ago, captured a coveted correspondent. It would have been as easy to shake off an octopus or a boa-constrictor.

Like simplicity and candor, and other much-commented qualities, enthusiasm is charming until we meet it face to face, and cannot escape from its charm.

The thinkers of the world should by rights be guardians of the world’s mirth.

The most charming thing about youth is the tenacity of its impressions.

Letter-writing on the part of a busy man or woman is the quintessence of generosity.

There is no illusion so permanent as that which enables us to look backward with complacency; there is no mental process so deceptive as the comparing of recollections with realities.