A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.
A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
An old novel has a history of its own.
The only thing a man knows is himself.
I have learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, not the applauding thunder at its heels that men call fame.