Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
To-day is always different from yesterday.
An old novel has a history of its own.
Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
One never hugs one's good luck so affectionately as when listening to the relation of some horrible misfortunes which has overtaken others.
There is a certain even-handed justice in Time; and for what he takes away he gives us something in return. He robs us of elasticity of limb and spirit, and in its place he brings tranquility and repose—the mild autumnal weather of the soul.