An old novel has a history of its own.
Christmas is the day that holds all time together.
Looking forward into an empty year strikes one with a certain awe, because one finds therein no recognition. The years behind have a friendly aspect, and they are warmed by the fires we have kindled, and all their echoes are the echoes of our own voices.
A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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.