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

The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.

The sea complains upon a thousand shores.

Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.

Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.

Seated in my library at night, and looking on the silent faces of my books, I am occasionally visited by a strange sense of the supernatural.

To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.