A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. . . I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure.

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

OK, boss, I don't mind shuffling, but I won't scratch my head.

All who joy would win
Must share it -- Happiness was born a twin.

On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd