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My father never raised his hand to any one of his children, except in self-defense.

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I fell asleep reading a dull book and dreamed I kept on reading, so I awoke from sheer boredom.

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Unprovided with original learning, unformed in the habits of thinking, unskilled in the arts of composition, I resolved to write a book.

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Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Romania.

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The Preacher, the Politicain, the Teacher,
Were each of them once a kiddie.
A child, indeed, is a wonderful creature.
Do I want one? God Forbiddie!

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Marriage: a book of which the first chapter is written in poetry and the remaining chapters in prose.

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One should never know too precisely whom one has married.

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Men have a much better time of it than women; for one thing, they marry later; for another thing they die earlier.

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The more he talked of his honor, the faster we counted our spoons.

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Psychoanalysts are father confessors who like to listen to the sins of the father as well.

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