The finest poems of the world have been expedients to get bread.

No living being is held by anything so strongly as by its own needs. Whatever therefore appears a hindrance to these, be it brother, or father, or child, or mistress, or friend, is hated, abhorred, execrated.

That was the worst of being poor, you couldn't give the right things in sickness.

Want gave tongue, and, at her howl, Sin awakened with a growl.

The constant demands of the heart and the belly can allow man only an incidental indulgence in the pleasures of the eye and the understanding.

The greater part of humanity is too much harassed and fatigued by the struggle with want, to rally itself for a new and sterner struggle with error.

Understanding human needs is half the job of meeting them.