Christopher Morley (5 May 1890 – 28 March 1957) was an American journalist, novelist, essayist and poet. He also produced stage productions for a few years and gave college lectures.
Big shots are only little shots who keep shooting.
It is unfair to blame man too fiercely for being pugnacious; he learned the habit from Nature.
There are certain people whom one feels almost inclined to urge to hurry up and die so that their letters can be published.
It's a good thing to turn your mind upside down now and then, like an hour-glass, to let the particles run the other way.
Printer's ink has been running a race against gunpowder these many, many years. Ink is handicapped, in a way, because you can blow up a man with gunpowder in half a second, while it may take twenty years to blow him up with a book. But the gunpowder destroys itself along with its victim, while a book can keep on exploding for centuries.
Mr. Gilbert had the earnest mania for self-improvement which has blighted the lives of so many young men.
There are three ingredients in the good life: learning, earning and yearning.
Act like you expect to get into the end zone.
Any man worth his salt has by the time he is forty-five accumulated a crown of thorns, and the problem is to learn to wear it over one ear.
Man makes a great fuss about this planet which is only a ballbearing in the hub of the universe.
God made man merely to hear some praise of what he'd done on those Five Days.
Lots of times you have to pretend to join a parade in which you're not really interested in order to get where you're going.
The little Plumpuppets are fairies of beds; They have nothing to do but watch sleepyheads; They turn down the sheets and they tuck you in tight, And dance on your pillow to wish you good night!
Blessed is the satirist; and blessed the ironist; blessed the witty scoffer, and blessed the sentimentalist; for each, having seen one spoke of the wheel, thinks to have seen all, and is content.
Never write up your diary on the day itself, for it takes longer than that to know what happened.
The greatest poem ever known Is one all poets have outgrown: The poetry, innate, untold, Of being only four years old.
A critic is a gong at a railroad crossing clanging loudly and vainly as the train goes by.
The unluckiest insolvent in the world is the man whose expenditure of speech is too great for his income of ideas.
New York is Babylon : Brooklyn is the truly Holy City. New York is the city of envy, office work, and hustle; Brooklyn is the region of homes and happiness. . . . There is no hope for New Yorkers, for their glory in Their skyscraping sins; but in Brooklyn there is the wisdom of the lowly.
All students can learn.