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All mirrors are magical mirrors, and we never see our faces in them.

Logan Pearsall Smith

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Logan Pearsall Smith
Age: 80 †
Born: 1865
Born: October 18
Died: 1946
Died: March 2
Author
Literary Critic
Writer
Millville
New Jersey
Lloyd Logan Pearsall Smith
Mirrors
Faces
Never
Magical

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A slight touch of friendly malice and amusement towards those we love keeps our affections for them from turning flat.
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When they come downstairs from their Ivory Towers, idealists are very apt to walk straight into the gutter.
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There is more felicity on the far side of baldness than young men can possibly imagine.
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The emergence of a new term to describe a certain phenomenon, of a new adjective to designate a certain quality, is always of interest, both linguistically and from the point of view of the history of human thought.
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If you want to be thought a liar, always tell the truth
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Don't tell friends their social faults they will cure the fault and never forgive you.
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Don't laugh at youth for his affectations he is only trying on one face after another to find his own.
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So, I never lose a sense of the whimsical and perilous charm of daily life, with its meetings and words and accidents.
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One can be bored until boredom becomes a mystical experience.
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Those who talk on the razor-edge of double-meanings pluck the rarest blooms from the precipice on either side.
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What pursuit is more elegant than that of collecting the ignominies of our nature and transfixing them for show, each on the bright pin of a polished phrase?
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What things there are to write, if one could only write them! My mind is full of gleaming thought gay moods and mysterious, moth-like meditations hover in my imagination, fanning their painted wings. But always the rarest, those streaked with azure and the deepest crimson, flutter away beyond my reach.
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People have a right to be shocked the mention of unmentionable things is a kind of participation in them.
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If we shake hands with icy fingers, it is because we have burnt them so horribly before.
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To become young again would seem to me an appalling prospect. Youth is a kind of delirium, which can be cured, if it is ever cured at all, by years of painful treatment.
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We grow with years more fragile in body, but morally stutter, and can throw off the chill of a bad conscience almost at once.
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Give me a bed and a book and I am happy.
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The indefatigable pursuit of an unattainable perfection -even though nothing more than the pounding of an old piano -is what alone gives a meaning to our life on this unavailing star.
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What humbugs we are, who pretend to live for beauty, and never see the dawn!
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Every author, however modest, keeps a most outrageous vanity chained like a madman in the padded cell of his breast.
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