Pleasure has no logic; it never treads in its own footsteps.

Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)

We are never happy; we can only remember that we were so once.

In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.

One never hugs one's good luck so affectionately as when listening to the relation of some horrible misfortunes which has overtaken others.

To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.

A thought may be very commendable as a thought, but I value it chiefly as a window through which I can obtain insight on the thinker.