Society and the World

Americans are nature-lovers: but they only admit of nature proofed and corrected by man.

We should often feel ashamed of our best actions if the world could see all of the motives which produced them.

Unexpected money is a delight. The same sum is a bitterness when you expected more.

Money—pardon my expression—money is like manure; it’s not worth a thing unless it’s spread around encouraging young things to grow.

Money’s a horrid thing to follow, but a charming thing to meet.

Money often costs too much.

We all need money, but there are degrees of desperation.

Money cannot buy The fuel of love But is excellent kindling.

and yet it is such a useful root that we cannot get on without it any more than we can without potatoes.

When it is a question of money, everybody is of the same religion.

The price we have to pay for money is paid in liberty.

The price we have to pay for money is paid in liberty.

Money is human happiness in the abstract.

Money is a singular thing. It ranks with love as man’s greatest source of joy. And with death as his greatest source of anxiety.

Money, which represents the prose of life, and which is hardly spoken of in parlors without an apology, is, in its effects and laws, as beautiful as roses.

Money is a protection, a cloak; it can buy one quiet, and some sort of dignity.

Fear and dull disposition, lukewarmness and sloth, are not seldom wont to cloak themselves under the affected name of moderation.

Excess on occasion is exhilarating. It prevents moderation from acquiring the deadening effect of habit.

Back of every mistaken venture and defeat is the laughter of wisdom, if you listen. Every blunder behind us is giving a cheer for us.

Mistakes are, after all, the foundations of truth, and if a man does not know what a thing is, it is at least an increase in knowledge if he knows what it is not.

Untilled soil, however fertile it may be, will bear thistles and thorns; and so it is with man’s mind.

An answer is invariably the parent of a great family of new questions.

The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind.

A man’s face is his autobiography. A woman’s face is her work of fiction.