How sick one gets of being "good," how much I should respect myself if I could burst out and make everyone wretched for twenty-four hours; embody selfishness.

How fatally the entire want of humor cripples the mind.

One has a greater sense of degradation after an interview with a doctor than from any human experience.

What one reads, or rather all that comes to us, is surely only of interest and value in proportion as we find ourselves therein, -- form given to what was vague, what slumbered stirred to life.

Truly nothing is to be expected except for the unexpected.

I wonder whether if I had an education I should have been more or less a fool that I am.

Who would ever give up the reality of dreams for relative knowledge?