The Word Snob Belongs To The Sour-grape

Growing Old Is Not A Gradual Decline, But A Series Of Drops, Full Of Sorrow, From One Ledge To Another Below It.

What Joy Can The Years Bring Half So Sweet As The Unhappiness They've Taken Away?

But Why Wasn't I Born, Alas, In An Age Of Adjectives; Why Can One No Longer Write Of Silver-shedding Tears And Moon-tailed Peacocks, Of Eloquent Death, Of The Negro And Star-enameled Night?

I Might Give My Life For My Friend, But He Had Better Not Ask Me To Do Up A Parcel.

Our Names Are Labels, Plainly Printed On The Bottled Essence Of Our Past Behavior.