Every day travels toward death; the last only arrives at it.

Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.

The great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.

In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October, when the trees are bare to the mild heavens, and the red leaves bestrew the road, and you can feel the breath of winter, morning and evening - no days so calm, so tenderly solemn, and with such a reverent meekness in the air.

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

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

A man can bear a world's contempt when he has that within which says he's worthy. When he contemns himself, there burns the hell.