We are never happy; we can only remember that we were so once.

We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.

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

An old novel has a history of its own.

My friend is not perfect-no more than I am-and so we suit each other admirable.

The discovery of a grey hair when you are brushing out your whiskers of a morning - first fallen flake of the coming snows of age - is a disagreeable thing.