Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
If a man is worth knowing at all, he is worth knowing well.
Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.
Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.
There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.