The Mysterious Stranger

by Mark Twain

But it made you seem sorrowfully trivial, and the creature of a day, and such a short and paltry day, too.

is a museum of diseases, a home of impurities; he comes to-day and is gone to-morrow; he begins as dirt and departs as stench;

we judged it would please him, and it did, and didn't cost us anything.

change of scene shifts the mind's burdens to the other shoulder and banishes old, shop-worn wearinesses from mind and body both.

Every man is a suffering-machine and a happiness-machine

Nothing can obstruct my vision; the rocks are transparent to me, and darkness is daylight.