Big book, a big bore.

To little men, gods send little things.

O Charidas, what of the under world? Great darkness. And what of the resurrection? A lie. And Pluto? A fable; we perish utterly.

More lightly do his sorrows press upon a man, when to a friend or fellow traveller he tells his griefs.

A great book is like great evil.

I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.