Great Men Hallow A Whole People, And

Lucy, Dear Child, Mind Your Arithmetic. You Know In The First Sum Of Yours I Ever Saw There Was A Mistake. You Had Carried Two (as A Cab Is Licensed To Do), And You Ought, Dear Lucy, To Have Carried But One. Is This A Trifle? What Would Life Be Without Arithmetic, But A Scene Of Horrors.

The Thing About Performance, Even If It's Only An Illusion, Is That It Is A Celebration Of The Fact That We Do Contain Within Ourselves Infinite Possibilities.

Marriage Resembles A Pair Of Shears, So Joined That They Cannot Be Separated; Often Moving In Opposite Directions, Yet Always Punishing Anyone Who Comes Between Them.

The Main Question To A Novel Is -- Did It Amuse? Were You Surprised At Dinner Coming So Soon? Did You Mistake Eleven For Ten? Were You Too Late To Dress? And Did You Sit Up Beyond The Usual Hour? If A Novel Produces These Effects, It Is Good; If It Does Not -- Story, Language, Love, Scandal Itself Cannot Save It. It Is Only Meant To Please; And It Must Do That Or It Does Nothing.

Resolve To Make At Least One Person Happy Every Day, And Then In Ten Years You May Have Made Three Thousand, Six Hundred And Fifty Persons Happy, Or Brightened A Small Town By Your Contribution To The Fund Of General Enjoyment.