Why doesn't the past decently bury itself, instead of sitting waiting to be admired by the present?

Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death, multiply itself million upon million, rear up city upon city, save every parasite alive, until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror.

If a woman hasn't got a tiny streak of a harlot in her, she's a dry stick as a rule.

Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.

Truth does not lie beyond humanity, but is one of the products of the human mind and feeling.

The pyramids of Egypt will not last a moment compared to the daisy.

And before Buddha or Jesus spoke the nightingale sang, and long after the words of Jesus and Buddha are gone into oblivion the nightingale still will sing. Because it is neither preaching nor commanding nor urging. It is just singing. And in the beginning was not a Word, but a chirrup.

I got the blues thinking of the future, so I left off and made some marmalade. It's amazing how it cheers one up to shred oranges and scrub the floor.

I hold that the parentheses are by far the most important parts of a non-business letter.

Life and love are life and love, a bunch of violets is a bunch of violets, and to drag in the idea of a point is to ruin everything. Live and let live, love and let love, flower and fade, and follow the natural curve, which flows on, pointless.