To be ungrateful is to be unnatural. The head may be thus guilty, not the heart.

Cats don't caress us-they caress themselves on us.

Memory always obeys the commands of the heart.

There is even the dignity of vice.

That which happens to the soil when it ceases to be cultivated by the social man happens to man himself when he foolishly forsakes society for solitude; the brambles grow up in his desert heart.

It is the dim haze of mystery that adds enchantment to pursuit.

Oblivion is the rule and fame the exception, of humanity.