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.

The saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.

If a man is worth knowing at all, he is worth knowing well.

I have learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, not the applauding thunder at its heels that men call fame.

If you wish to make a man look noble, your best course is to kill him. What superiority he may have inherited from his race, what superiority nature may have personally gifted him with, comes out in death.

My garden, with its silence and pulses of fragrance that come and go on the airy undulations, affects me like sweet music. Care stops at the gates, and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.

God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.