An old novel has a history of its own.

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

Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.

The greatness of an artist or a writer does not depend on what he has in common with other artists and writers, but on what he has peculiar to himself.

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.

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.

The truly great rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, nor seek the conformation of the world.