This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.

'Geniuses are horrid, intolerant, easily offended, sleeplessly self-conscious men, who expect their wives to be angels with no further business in life than to…

The schoolboy who uses his Homer to throw at his fellow's head makes perhaps the safest and most rational use of him than any one ever will.

'Composers are not human; They can live on diminished sevenths, and be contented with a pianoforte for a wife, and a string quartette for a family.'

I don't know why we are here, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves.

The happiness of men consists in life. And life is in labor.

Far and away the best prize that life has to offer is the chance to work hard at work worth doing.