That man who lives for self alone, Lives for the meanest mortal known.

Let us go and talk with the poets. (on arriving in San Francisco)

Death is delightful. Death is dawn, the waking from a weary night of fevers unto truth and light.

The soul that feeds on books alone --/ I count that soul exceeding small / That lives alone by book and creed, --/ A soul that has not learned to read.

The biggest dog has been a pup

All honor to him who shall win the prize. The world has cried for a thousand years. But to him who tries and fails and dies, I give great honor and glory and tears.