That best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.

Take, O, take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn: But my kisses bring again, bring again; Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain. -Measure for Measure. Act iv. Sc. 1.

We have it in our power to begin the world over again.

We hear about constitutional rights, free speech and the free press. Every time I hear those words I say to myself, "That man is a Red, that man is a Communist." You never heard a real American talk in that manner.

Every politician should have been born an orphan and remain a bachelor.

Th' aspirer, once attain'd unto the top, Cuts off those means by which himself got up.

The scourge of life, and death's extreme disgrace, The smoke of hell,--that monster called Paine.

You ask me if I keep a notebook to record my great ideas. I've only ever had one.

Real happiness is cheap enough, yet how dearly we pay for its counterfeit.

There the wicked cease from troubling; and there the weary be at rest.

I find that a man is as old as his work. If his work keeps him from moving forward, he will look forward with the work. - Wisdom for Our Time.

When yer in a funk, people in love are a royal pain in the patookus.

Construed as turf, home just seems a provisional claim, a designation you make upon a place, not one it makes on you. A certain set of buildings, a glimpsed, smudged window-view across a schoolyard, a musty aroma sniffed behind a garage when you were a child, all of which come crowding in upon your latter-day senses -- those are pungent things and vivid, even consoling. But to me they are also inert and nostalgic and unlikely to connect you to the real, to that essence art can sometimes achieve, which is permanence.

And we know these times will never fade, hold them close, our youth is remembered forever...

The statistics on sanity are that one out of every four Americans is suffering from some form of mental illness. Think of your three best friends. If they're okay, then it's you.

...we, the goths, do know how death, depression, despair, grief, misery and sorrow feels.

For God to explain a trial would be to destroy its purpose, calling forth simple faith and implicit obedience.

The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever.

Little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love.

Then purg'd with euphrasy and rue The visual nerve, for he had much to see.