From the first moment of life, men ought to begin learning to deserve to live.

Real life is, to most men, a long second-best, a perpetual compromise between the ideal and the possible.

There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval.

It is only in the microscope that our life looks so big. It is an indivisible point, drawn out and magnified by the powerful lenses of Time and Space.

Life is a task to be done. It is a fine thing to say defunctus est; it means that the man has done his task.

The scenes of our life are like pictures done in rough mosaic. Looked at close, they produce no effect. There is nothing beautiful to be found in them, unless you stand some distance off.

What is the life of man! Is it not to shift from side to side?-from sorrow to sorrow?-to button up one cause of vexation!-and unbutton another!

Everyday life is a stimulating mixture of order and haphazardly. The sun rises and sets on schedule but the wind bloweth where it listeth.

Life is a tragedy wherein we sit as spectators for a while and then act our part in it.

Better a thousand times even a swiftly fading, ephemeral moment of life than the epoch-long unconsciousness of the stone.