We were all fated to die, and so it is good that at least we can be sure our deaths today might bring about a good end, might make the world a better place.

It was only a smile, nothing more. It didn’t make everything all right. It didn’t make anything all right. Only a smile. A tiny thing. A leaf in the woods, shaking in the wake of a startled bird’s flight. But I’ll take it. With open arms.

Wisht I knowed what all the sins was, so I could do ’em.

Morals are an acquirement, like music, like a foreign language, like piety, poker, paralysis, no man is born with them.

Written By Mark Twain

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