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Absolute devotion to the day of her death,Absolutely, so positively, so almost aggressively truthfulAddressed to their tenderness out of his tendernessAmiable perception, and yet with a sort of remote absenceAmuse him, even when they wronged himAmusingly realized the situation to their friendsBut now I remember that he gets twenty dollars a monthChristianity had done nothing to improve morals and conditionsChurch: “Oh yes, I go. It ‘most kills me, but I go,”Clemens was sole, incomparable, the Lincoln of our literatureDespair broke in laughterDespised the avoidance of repetitions out of fear of tautologyEverlasting rock of human credulity and follyFlowers with which we garland our despair in that pitiless hourHe did not care much for fictionHe did not paw you with his hands to show his affectionHe was a youth to the end of his daysHeroic liesHis coming almost killed her, but it was worth itHonest men are few when it comes to themselvesIt was mighty pretty, as Pepys would sayJane AustenLeft him to do what the cat mightLie, of course, and did to save others from grief or harmLiked to find out good things and great things for himselfLivy Clemens: nthe loveliest person I have ever seenMarriages are what the parties to them alone really knowMind and soul were with those who do the hard work of the worldMock modesty of print forbids my repeating hereMost desouthernized Southerner I ever knewMost serious, the most humane, the most conscientious of menNearly nothing as chaos could beNever saw a dead man whom he did not envyNever saw a man more regardful of negroesNo man ever yet told the truth about himselfNo man more perfectly sensed and more entirely abhorred slaveryNot possible for Clemens to write like anybody elseOught not to call coarse without calling one’s self prudishPolite learning hesitated his praisePraised it enough to satisfy the authorReparation due from every white to every black manShackles of belief worn so longSome superstition, usually of a hygienic sortStupidly truthfulThe ornament of a house is the friends who frequent itTruthfulUsed to ingratitude from those he helpedVacuous vulgarity of its textsWalter-Scotticized, pseudo-chivalry of the Southern idealWe have never ended before, and we do not see how we can endWell, if you are to be lost, I want to be lost with youWhat he had done he owned to, good, bad, or indifferentWhether every human motive was not selfishWonder why we hate the past so—“It’s so damned humiliating!”