Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act. ~Truman Capote
When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not; but my faculties are decaying now and soon I shall be so I cannot remember any but the things that never happened. It is sad to go to pieces like this but we all have to do it. ~Mark Twain
One father is more than a hundred Schoolemasters. ~George Herbert, Outlandish Proverbs, 1640
Henry James once defined life as that predicament which precedes death, and certainly nobody owes you a debt of honor or gratitude for getting him into that predicament. But a child does owe his father a debt, if Dad, having gotten him into this peck of trouble, takes off his coat and buckles down to the job of showing his son how best to crash through it. ~Clarence Budington Kelland
Henry James once defined life as that predicament which precedes death, and certainly nobody owes you a debt of honor or gratitude for getting him into that predicament. But a child does owe his father a debt, if Dad, having gotten him into this peck of trouble, takes off his coat and buckles down to the job of showing his son how best to crash through it. ~Clarence Budington Kelland
There is still no cure for the common birthday. ~John Glenn
I'm sixty years of age. That's 16 Celsius. ~George Carlin, Brain Droppings, 1997
Blessed indeed is the man who hears many gentle voices call him father! ~Lydia M. Child, Philothea: A Romance, 1836
I'm sixty years of age. That's 16 Celsius. ~George Carlin, Brain Droppings, 1997
First you forget names; then you forget faces; then you forget to zip up your fly; and then you forget to unzip your fly. ~Branch Rickey
A father is always making his baby into a little woman. And when she is a woman he turns her back again. ~Enid Bagnold
The first sign of maturity is the discovery that the volume knob also turns to the left. ~Jerry M. Wright
There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself. ~John Gregory Brown, Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery, 1994
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