A Pipe For The Hour Of Work;

And Why Should Any Man Who Writes, Even If He Writes Things Immortal, Nurse Anger At The World's Neglect? Who Asked Him To Publish? Who Promised Him A Hearing? Who Has Broken Faith With Him? Your Poem, Your Novel, Who Bargained With You For It?

A Pipe For The Hour Of Work; A Cigarette For The Hour Of Conception; A Cigar For The Hour Of Vacuity.

Life, I Fancy, Would Very Often Be Insupportable, But For The Luxury Of Self Compassion.

Human Creatures Have A Mervellous Power Of Adapting Themselves To Necessity.

For The Man Sound Of Body And Serene Of Mind There Is No Such Thing As Bad Weather; Every Day Has Its Beauty, And Storms Which Whip The Blood Do But Make It Pulse More Vigorously.