Pretty Much All The Honest

The Joy Of Life Is To Put Out One's Power In Some Natural And Useful Or Harmless Way. There Is No Other. And The Real Misery Is Not To Do This.

We Are All Sentenced To Capital Punishment For The Crime Of Living, And Though The Condemned Cell Of Our Earthly Existence Is But A Narrow And Bare Dwelling-place, We Have Adjusted Ourselves To It, And Made It Tolerably Comfortable For The Little While We Are To Be Confined In It.

Our Morality Seems To Be Only A Check On The Ultimate Domination Of Force, Just As Our Politeness Is A Check On The Impulse Of Every Pig To Put His Feet In The Trough.

Liberty Is Often A Heavy Burden On A Man. It Involves The Necessity For Perpetual Choice Which Is The Kind Of Labor Men Have Always Dreaded.

Most People Have Died Before They Expire; Died To All Earthly Longings, So That The Last Breath Is Only, As It Were, The Locking Of The Door Of The Already Deserted Mansion.