There are men here and there to whom the whole of life is like an after-dinner hour with a cigar; easy, pleasant, empty, perhaps enlivened by some fable of strife to be forgotten before the end is told.

Life is an incurable disease.

Man pines to live but cannot endure the days of his life.

We live half our waking lives and all of our sleeping lives in some private, useless, and insensible waters we never mention or recall.

Birth, and copulation, and death. That's all the facts when you come to brass tacks.

We all got holes in our lives. Nobody dies in a perfect garment.

Alas!-but why Alas? It is the lot of mortality we experience.

Making a living and making a life that's worthwhile are not the same thing. Living the good life and living a good life are not the same thing.

All lives are interesting; no one life is more interesting than another. Its fascination depends on how much is revealed, and in what manner.

Life's a pudding full of plums.