Wit is artificial; humor is natural. Wit is accidental; humor is inevitable. Wit is born of conscious effort; humor, of the allotted ironies of fate. Wit can be expressed only in language; humor can be developed sufficiently in situation. — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
The dog is guided by kindly instinct to the man or woman whose heart is open to his advances. The cat often leaves the… — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
Letter-writing on the part of a busy man or woman is the quintessence of generosity. — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
To have given pleasure to one human being is a recollection that sweetens life. — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
Believers in political faith-healing enjoy a supreme immunity from doubt. — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
Philadelphians are every whit as mediocre as their neighbors, but they seldom encourage each other in mediocrity by giving it a more agreeable name. — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
When the milk of human kindness turns sour, it is a singularly unpalatable draught. — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
Conversation in its happiest development is a link, equally exquisite and adequate, between mind and mind, a system by which men approach one another… — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
What monstrous absurdities and paradoxes have resisted whole batteries of serious arguments, and then crumbled swiftly into dust before the ringing death-knell of a… — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
the labors of the true critic are more essential to the author, even, than to the reader. — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dog. You are his life, his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and… — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
Our dogs will love and admire the meanest of us, and feed our colossal vanity with their uncritical homage. — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
Erudition, like a bloodhound, is a charming thing when held firmly in leash, but it is not so attractive when turned loose upon a… — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
There was no escape from the letter-writer who, a hundred or a hundred and twenty-five years ago, captured a coveted correspondent. It would have… — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
Sleep sweetly in the fields of asphodel, and waken, as of old, to stretch thy languid length, and purr thy soft contentment to the… — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
In the stress of modern life, how little room is left for that most comfortable vanity that whispers in our ears that failures are… — Agnes Repplier Copy Share Image
