Clarence Shepard Day, Jr. (November 18, 1874 – December 28, 1935) was an American author, best known for his 1935 work, Life With Father. (Click here for full Wikipedia article)
A moderate addiction to money may not always be hurtful; but when taken in excess it is nearly always bad for the health.
Age should not have its face lifted, but it should rather teach the world to admire wrinkles as the etchings of experience and the firm line of character.
Ants are good citizens, they place group interests first.
As time goes on, new and remoter aspects of truth are discovered which can seldom be fitted into creeds that are changeless.
As to modesty and decency, if we are simians we have done well, considering: but if we are something else- fallen angels- we have indeed fallen far.
Babies are unreasonable; they expect far too much of existence. Each new generation that comes takes one look at the world and thinks wildly, 'Is this all they've done to it?' and bursts into tears.
Creatures whose main spring is curiosity will enjoy the accumulating of fact, far more than the pausing at times to reflect on those facts.
Dogs have more love than integrity. They've been true to us, yes, but they haven't been true to themselves.
Elephants suffer from too much patience. Their exhibitions of it may seem superb- such power and such restraint, combined, are noble- but a quality carried to excess defeats itself.
I thought of God as a strangely emotional being. He was powerful; he was forgiving yet obdurate, full of wrath and affection. Both His wrath and affection were fitful, they came and they went, and I couldn't count on either to continue; although they both always did. In short God was such a being as my father himself.
If you don't go to other men's funerals, they won't go to yours.
If your parents didn’t have any children, there is a good chance that you won’t have any.
Information's pretty thin stuff, unless mixed with experience.
It is possible that our race may be an accident, in a meaningless universe, living its brief life uncared-for, on this dark, cooling star: but even so- and all the more- what marvelous creatures we are
Reason is the servant of instinct.
The real world is not easy to live in. It is rough; it is slippery. Without the most clear-eyed adjustments we fall and get crushed. A man must stay sober; not always, but most of the time.
The world of books is the most remarkable creation of man. Nothing else that he builds ever lasts. Monuments fall, nations perish, civilizations grow old and die out; and, after an era of darkness, new races build others. But in the world of books are volumes that have seen this happen again and again, and yet live on, still young, still as fresh as the day they were written, still telling men's hearts of the hearts of men centuries dead.
The worshipper of energy is too physically energetic to see that he cannot explore certain higher fields until he is still.
There certainly seems to be a power at work in the world, by virtue of which every living thing grows and develops. And it tends toward splendor.
There is an art of reading, as well as an art of thinking, and an art of writing.
This is a hard and precarious world, where every mistake and infirmity must be paid in full.
Too many moralists begin with a dislike of reality.
We have no sure vision. Hopes, guesses, beliefs- that is all.
We talk of our mastery of nature, which sounds very grand; but the fact is we respectfully adapt ourselves, first, to her ways.
You can't sweep other people off their feet, if you can't be swept off your own.