The injury therefore that we do to a man must be such that we need not fear his vengeance.
The earth does not want new continents, but new men.
Still we live meanly, like ants; though the fable tells us that we were long ago changed into men.
Men can’t own the land no more’n they can own the sea or the sky.
Have you any notion of how many books are written about women in the course of one year? Have you any notion how many are written by men? Are you aware that you are, perhaps, the most discussed animal in the universe?
What freedom men and women could have, were they not constantly tricked and trapped and enslaved and tortured by their sexuality! The only drawback in that freedom is that without it one would not be a human. One would be a monster.
This is how warlike men assuage their consciences—by talk of glory.
There would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men—and God knows why they are so fashioned—did not employ their imaginations so assiduously in recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their present lot with equanimity.
There is a strange charm in the thoughts of a good legacy, or the hopes of an estate, which wondrously alleviates the sorrow that men would otherwise feel for the death of friends.
There is a price for being good the same as for being bad; a cost to pay. And it’s the good men that can’t deny the bill when it comes around. They can’t deny it, like the honest man that gambles. The bad men can deny it; that’s why don’t anybody expect them to pay on sight or any other time. But the good can’t.
There are just some kind of men who’re so busy worrying about the next world they’ve never learned to live in this one.
The wisest men in all ages have judged similarly with regard to life: it is good for nothing.
