In the same letter he suggests to his brother that he undertake an absolutely truthful autobiography, a confession in which nothing is to be withheld. He cites the value of Casanova's memories, and the confessions of Rousseau. And I say this also: He that waiteth for all men to be satisfied with his plan, let him seek eternal life, for he shall need it. Well-good-bye, and a short life and a merry one be yours. Poor old Methusaleh, how did he manage to stand it so long? You are assisted in your damaging work by the tyrannous ways of a village--villagers watch each other and so make cowards of each other. TWAIN'S LETTERS V4 1886-1900 by Albert Bigelow Paine[mt4lt10.txt] #3196 And I have been an author for 20 years and an ass for 55 Argument against suicide Conversationally being yelled at Dead people who go through the motions of life Die in the promptest kind of a way and no fooling around Heroic endurance that resembles contentment Honest men must be pretty scarce I wonder how they can lie so. It comes of practice, no doubt If this is going to be too much trouble to you One should be gentle with the ignorant Sunday is the only day that brings unbearable leisure Symbol of the human race ought to be an ax What a pity it is that one's adventures never happen! TWAIN'S LETTERS V5 1901-1906 by Albert Bigelow Paine[mt5lt10.txt] #3197 I have seen that iceberg thirty-four times in thirty-seven voyages; it is always the same shape, it is always the same size, it always throws up the same old flash when the sun strikes it; you may set it on any New York door-step of a June morning and light it up with a mirror-flash; and I will engage to recognize it. It is artificial, and it is provided and anchored out by the steamer companies. I used to like the sea, but I was young then, and could easily get excited over any kind of monotony, and keep it up till the monotonies ran out, if it was a fortnight. It vexes me to catch myself praising the clean private citizen Roosevelt, and blaming the soiled President Roosevelt, when I know that neither praise nor blame is due to him for any thought or word or deed of his, he being merely a helpless and irresponsible coffee-mill ground by the hand of God. It was a presidential year and the air was thick with politics. Mark Twain was no longer actively interested in the political situation; he was only disheartened by the hollowness and pretense of office-seeking, and the methods of office-seekers in general. Shall we ever laugh again? If I could only see a dog that I knew in the old times! and could put my arms around his neck and tell him all, everything, and ease my heart. Think--in 3 hours it will be a week!--and soon a month; and by and by a year. How fast our dead fly from us. Aldrich was here half an hour ago, like a breeze from over the fields, with the fragrance still upon his spirit. I am tired of waiting for that man to get old.