There is no lonelier man in death, except the suicide, than that man who has lived many years with a good wife and then outlived her. If two people love each other there can be no happy end to it.
The world has grown so suspicious of anything that looks like a happy married life.
The woman who is happy in her affections does not go much into the world.
The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what Fiction means.
The afternoon came down as imperceptibly as age comes to a happy man.
Sometimes there is no happy choice, Sam, only one less grievous than the others.
Pleasure is Nature’s test, her sign of approval. When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy.
Only it takes time to be happy. A lot of time. Happiness, too, is a long patience.
Not only are there no happy endings. There aren’t even any endings.
No one is born happy. Everyone has to make his own happiness.
Men of profound sadness betray themselves when they are happy: they have a mode of seizing upon happiness as though they would choke and strangle it, out of jealousy—ah, they know only too well that it will flee from them!
Maybe it wasn’t that hard to be happy.
