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Who that has plodded on to middle age would take back upon his shoulders ten of the vanished years, with their mingled pleasures and pains? Who would return to the youth he is forever pretending to regret?

Agnes Repplier

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Agnes Repplier
Age: 92 †
Born: 1858
Born: April 1
Died: 1950
Died: December 15
Biographer
Essayist
Writer
Philadelphia
Pennsylvania
Pleasure
Aging
Age
Shoulders
Upon
Ten
Pain
Regret
Mingled
Back
Youth
Vanished
Take
Return
Pains
Years
Middle
Pleasures
Would
Forever
Pretending

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There is nothing in the world so incomprehensible as the joke we do not see.
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I do strive to think well of my fellow man, but no amount of striving can give me confidence in the wisdom of a congressional vote.
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But self-satisfaction, if as buoyant as gas, has an ugly trick of collapsing when full blown, and facts are stony things that refuse to melt away in the sunshine of a smile.
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No man pursues what he has at hand. No man recognizes the need of pursuit until that which he desires has escaped him.
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The well-ordered mind knows the value, no less than the charm, of reticence. The fruit of the tree of knowledge ... falls ripe from its stem but those who have eaten with sobriety find no need to discuss the processes of digestion.
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History is not written in the interests of morality.
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the most charming thing about youth is the tenacity of its impressions.
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The great dividing line between books that are made to be read and books that are made to be bought is not the purely modern thing it seems. We can trace it, if we try, back to the first printing-presses.
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Guests are the delight of leisure, and the solace of ennui.
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Men who believe that, through some exceptional grace or good fortune, they have found God, feel little need of culture.
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Laughter springs from the lawless part of our nature.
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The dog is guided by kindly instinct to the man or woman whose heart is open to his advances. The cat often leaves the friend who courts her, to honor, or to harass, the unfortunate mortal who shudders at her unwelcome caresses.
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Letters form a by-path of literature, a charming, but occasional, retreat for people of cultivated leisure.
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I am eighty years old. There seems to be nothing to add to this statement. I have reached the age of undecorated facts - facts that refuse to be softened by sentiment, or confused by nobility of phrase.
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There was no escape from the letter-writer who, a hundred or a hundred and twenty-five years ago, captured a coveted correspondent. It would have been as easy to shake off an octopus or a boa-constrictor.
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The vanity of man revolts from the serene indifference of the cat.
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For indeed all that we think so new to-day has been acted over and over again, a shifting comedy, by the women of every century.
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Democracy forever teases us with the contrast between its ideals and its realities, between its heroic possibilities and its sorry achievements.
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Sleep sweetly in the fields of asphodel, and waken, as of old, to stretch thy languid length, and purr thy soft contentment to the skies.
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