You needn't tell me that a man who doesn't love oysters and asparagus and good wines has got a soul, or a stomach either. He's simply got the instinct for being unhappy highly developed.
The man is a common murderer. A common murderer, possible, but a very uncommon cook.
Life is full of its disappointments, and I suppose the art of being happy is to disguise them as illusions.
Women and elephants never forget an injury.
The cat of the slums and alleys, starved, outcast, harried, still keeps amid the prowlings of its adversity the bold, free, panther-tread with which it paced of yore the temple courts of Thebes, still displays the self-reliant watchfulness which man has never taught it to lay aside.