Gardens are not made by singing ‘Oh, how beautiful,’ and sitting in the shade.
God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers.
All the people like us are we, and everyone else is They.
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, till the Devil whispered behind the leaves ‘It’s pretty, but is it Art?’
Borrow trouble for yourself, if that’s your nature, but don’t lend it to your neighbours.
Down to Gehenna, or up to the Throne, He travels the fastest who travels alone.
He travels the fastest who travels alone.
Heaven grant us patience with a man in love.
I always prefer to believe the best of everybody, it saves so much trouble.
If history were taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten.
It’s clever, but is it Art?
San Francisco is a mad city – inhabited for the most part by perfectly insane people whose women are of a remarkable beauty.
We have forty million reasons for failure, but not a single excuse.
When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains, and the women come out to cut up what remains, jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains and go to your gawd like a soldier.