Do you not see with your own eyes the chrysalis fact assume by degrees the wings of fiction?

But it is the province of religion, of philosophy, of pure poetry only, to go beyond life, beyond time, into eternity.

Silence alone is great; all else is feebleness . . . Perform with all your heart your long and heavy task. . . . Then as do I, say naught, but suffer and die.

One might almost reckon mathematically that, having undergone the double composition of public opinion and of the author, their history reaches us at third hand and is thus separated by two stages from the original fact.

What is the use of theorizing as to wherein lies the charm that moves us?

Of late years (perhaps as a result of our political changes) art has borrowed from history more than ever.

What is a great life? It is the dreams of youth realised in old age.