Boredom is simply romanticism with a morning-after thirst.

Shortest straw pulls the skunk's tail.

I'm a suicide. I walked right spang over the edge of life and disappeared. Splash! Bubble-bubble! There goes nothing.

Medicine would be the ideal profession if it did not involve giving pain.

A wasted human being--that's a sort of practical blasphemy, according to my religion.

Shut your eyes to the medical columns of the newspapers, and you will save yourself many forebodings and symptoms.

Success: a marvelous stimulant, bubbling with inspiration and incitement. But for all except the few who are strong and steadfast, there lurks beneath the effervescence a subtle poison.

With a few honorable exceptions the press of the United States is at the beck and call of the patent medicines. Not only do the newspapers modify news possibly affecting these interests, but they sometimes become their agents.

According to the estimate of a prominent advertising firm, above 90 per cent, of the earning capacity of the prominent nostrums is represented by their advertising. And all this advertising is based on the well-proven theory of the public's pitiable ignorance and gullibility in the vitally important matter of health.

Printer's ink, when it spells out a doctor's promise to cure, is one of the subtlest and most dangerous of poisons.

The path of the pursuer and the prey often run obscurely parallel.

You never get bored ... when you have the probabilities of your next meal to speculate on, pro and con.