and respectful approval to the President—is approval the proper word? I find it is the one I most value here in the household and seldomest get.

In the same letter he suggests to his brother that he undertake an absolutely truthful autobiography, a confession in which nothing is to be withheld. He cites the value of Casanova's memories, and the confessions of Rousseau.

And I say this also: He that waiteth for all men to be satisfied with his plan, let him seek eternal life, for he shall need it.

Well-good-bye, and a short life and a merry one be yours. Poor old
Methusaleh, how did he manage to stand it so long?

You are assisted in your damaging work by the tyrannous ways of a village—villagers watch each other and so make cowards of each other.

TWAIN'S LETTERS V4 1886-1900 by Albert Bigelow Paine[mt4lt10.txt] #3196

And I have been an author for 20 years and an ass for 55
Argument against suicide
Conversationally being yelled at
Dead people who go through the motions of life
Die in the promptest kind of a way and no fooling around
Heroic endurance that resembles contentment
Honest men must be pretty scarce
I wonder how they can lie so. It comes of practice, no doubt
If this is going to be too much trouble to you
One should be gentle with the ignorant
Sunday is the only day that brings unbearable leisure
Symbol of the human race ought to be an ax
What a pity it is that one's adventures never happen!

TWAIN'S LETTERS V5 1901-1906 by Albert Bigelow Paine[mt5lt10.txt] #3197

I have seen that iceberg thirty-four times in thirty-seven voyages; it is always the same shape, it is always the same size, it always throws up the same old flash when the sun strikes it; you may set it on any New York door-step of a June morning and light it up with a mirror-flash; and I will engage to recognize it. It is artificial, and it is provided and anchored out by the steamer companies. I used to like the sea, but I was young then, and could easily get excited over any kind of monotony, and keep it up till the monotonies ran out, if it was a fortnight.

It vexes me to catch myself praising the clean private citizen Roosevelt, and blaming the soiled President Roosevelt, when I know that neither praise nor blame is due to him for any thought or word or deed of his, he being merely a helpless and irresponsible coffee-mill ground by the hand of God.

It was a presidential year and the air was thick with politics. Mark Twain was no longer actively interested in the political situation; he was only disheartened by the hollowness and pretense of office-seeking, and the methods of office-seekers in general.

Shall we ever laugh again? If I could only see a dog that I knew in the old times! and could put my arms around his neck and tell him all, everything, and ease my heart. Think—in 3 hours it will be a week!—and soon a month; and by and by a year. How fast our dead fly from us.

Aldrich was here half an hour ago, like a breeze from over the fields, with the fragrance still upon his spirit. I am tired of waiting for that man to get old.

When a man is a pessimist before 48 he knows too much; if he is an optimist after it, he knows too little.

TWAIN'S LETTERS V6 1907-1910 by Albert Bigelow Paine[mt6lt10.txt] #3198

That doctor had half an idea that there is something the matter with my brain. . . Doctors do know so little and they do charge so much for it.

You ought not to say sarcastic things about my "fighting on the other side." General Grant did not act like that. General Grant paid me compliments. He bracketed me with Zenophon—it is there in his Memoirs for anybody to read. He said if all the confederate soldiers had followed my example and adopted my military arts he could never have caught enough of them in a bunch to inconvenience the Rebellion. General Grant was a fair man, and recognized my worth; but you are prejudiced, and you have hurt my feelings.

DEAR HOWELLS,—I have to write a line, lazy as I am, to say how your Poe article delighted me; and to say that I am in agreement with substantially all you say about his literature. To me his prose is unreadable—like Jane Austin's. No, there is a difference. I could read his prose on salary, but not Jane's. Jane is entirely impossible. It seems a great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death.

THE COMPLETE LETTERS OF MARK TWAIN by Albert Bigelow Paine[mtclt10.txt] #3199

That doctor had half an idea that there is something the matter with my brain. . . Doctors do know so little and they do charge so much for it.

Shall we ever laugh again? If I could only see a dog that I knew in the old times! and could put my arms around his neck and tell him all, everything, and ease my heart. Think—in 3 hours it will be a week!—and soon a month; and by and by a year. How fast our dead fly from us.

I used to like the sea, but I was young then, and could easily get excited over any kind of monotony, and keep it up till the monotonies ran out.

And I say this also: He that waiteth for all men to be satisfied with his plan, let him seek eternal life, for he shall need it.

Well-good-bye, and a short life and a merry one be yours. Poor old
Methusaleh, how did he manage to stand it so long?

You are assisted in your damaging work by the tyrannous ways of a village— villagers watch each other and so make cowards of each other.

A mighty national menace to sham
All talk and no cider
Approval
Argument against suicide
As good and ridiculous a soul as ever was.
Buffalo! I mortally hate that society there
Casanova
Condition my room is always in when you are not around
Conversationally and being yelled at
Could easily get excited over any kind of monotony,
De Foe's 'Roxana'
Dead people who go through the motions of life
Deprived of the soothing consolation of swearing
Die in the promptest kind of a way and no fooling around
Doctors do know so little and they do charge so much for it.
Frankness is a jewel; only the young can afford it
General Grant
Genius defies the laws of perspective
Get me rid of Buffalo!
Great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death
Hard to please about things she doesn't know anything about
He that waiteth for all men to be satisfied with his plan
Helpless and irresponsible coffee-mill ground by the hand of God
Heroic endurance that resembles contentment
Hollowness and pretense of office-seeking
Honest men must be pretty scarce
Hope deferred maketh the heart sick
How fast our dead fly from us
I never greatly envied anybody but the dead
I wonder how they can lie so. It comes of practice, no doubt
I am tired of waiting for that man to get old
If this is going to be too much trouble to you
In the long analysis of the ages it is the truth that counts
Jacobs
Just about enough cats to go round
Moral bulwark reared against hypocrisy and superstition
Never approximated, never compromised
One should be gentle with the ignorant
Quit sorry that Heaven makes the days so short
Rousseau
Short life and a merry one be yours
Sunday is the only day that brings unbearable leisure
Symbol of the human race ought to be an ax
The coveted estate of silence, time's only absolute gift
They don't