Notwithstanding the poverty of my outside experience, I have always had a significance for myself, and every chance to stumle along my straight and narrow little path, and to worship at the feet of my Deity, and what more can a human soul ask for?

If I can get on to my sofa and occupy myself for four hours, at intervals through the day, scribbling my notes, and able to read the books that belong to me, in that they clarify the density, and shape the formless mass within, life seems inconceivably rich.

Though I have no productive worth, I have a certain value as an indestructible quantity.

Physical pain however great ends in itself and falls away like dry husks from the mind, whilst moral discords and nervous horrors sear the soul.

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

The success or failure of a life, as far as posterity goes, seems to lie in the more or less luck of seizing the right moment of escape

How fatally the entire want of humor cripples the mind.