Lapham’s Quarterly

A multitude of small delights constitute happiness.

The happy ending is our national belief.

There is no happiness like that of a young couple in a little house they have built themselves in a place of beauty and solitude.

That is happiness: to be dissolved into something complete and great.

Happiness is not something you can catch and lock up in a vault like wealth. Happiness is nothing but everyday living seen through a veil.

There will always be a lost dog somewhere that will prevent me from being happy.

The world owes all its onward impulses to men ill at ease. The happy man inevitably confines himself within ancient limits.

He who would be happy should stay at home.

Men who are unhappy, like men who sleep badly, are always proud of the fact.

Happiness (as the mathematicians might say) lies on a curve, and we approach it only by asymptote.