I can't think of any sorrow in the world that a hot bath wouldn't help, just a little bit.

We're all made of the same kind of stuff, and there's none of us made of stuff that's flawless.

I often think of the different ways Goethe and Darwin got at evolution. Goethe had the poetic conception of it all right; Darwin worked it out step by step. Who's ahead? And which has any business scoffing at the other?

I'm not sure I would be a good godmother. I have read about it, and I found that the godmother's position is to take care of the morals of the child. I don't know how good I would be at that.

Defeat furnishes good material to the poets and the artists, but none of us care to have the glory of the conquered apply to us.

I would supplant the ox with the automobile and pave instead of plowing the fields. 1 have a theory that if a corn field were paved, leaving out a brick for each hill, it would increase the yield, do away entirely with the mud, and give the farmer plenty of time to meditate on lofty subjects. That is only one theory. I have many others.