Samuel Hopkins Adams (January 26, 1871 – November 16, 1958) was an American writer, best known for his investigative journalism and muckraking.
Success: a marvelous stimulant, bubbling with inspiration and incitement. But for all except the few who are strong and steadfast, there lurks beneath the effervescence a subtle poison.
The path of the pursuer and the prey often run obscurely parallel.
Any physician who advertises a positive cure for any disease, who issues nostrum testimonials, who sells his services to a secret remedy, or who diagnoses and treats by mail patients he has never seen, is a quack.
The ordinary run of advertising is nothing more than an effort to sell something by yelling in print.
Boredom is simply romanticism with a morning-after thirst.
Shortest straw pulls the skunk's tail.
We are living at a time when creeds and ideologies vary and clash. But the gospel of human sympathy is universal and eternal.
With a few honorable exceptions the press of the United States is at the beck and call of the patent medicines. Not only do the newspapers modify news possibly affecting these interests, but they sometimes become their agents.
Work won't do me any good. . . I've tried it, and it bored me worse than the other thing.
With the exception of lawyers, there is no profession which, considers itself above the law so widely as the medical profession.
Printer's ink, when it spells out a doctor's promise to cure, is one of the subtlest and most dangerous of poisons.
You never get bored. . . when you have the probabilities of your next meal to speculate on, pro and con.
Shut your eyes to the medical columns of the newspapers, and you will save yourself many forebodings and symptoms.
I'm a suicide. I walked right spang over the edge of life and disappeared. Splash! Bubble-bubble! There goes nothing.