We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been.

Much depends upon when and where you read a book. In the five or six impatient minutes before the dinner is quite ready, who would think of taking up the Faerie Queen for a stopgap, or a volume of Bishop Andrews's Sermons?

The world meets nobody half way.

He might have proved a useful adjunct, if not an ornament to society.

Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid

Antiquity! thou wondrous charm, what art thou? that being nothing art everything? When thou wert, thou wert not antiquity - then thou wert nothing, but hadst a remoter antiquity, as thou calledst it, to look back to with blind veneration; thou thyself being to thyself flat, jejune, modern! What mystery lurks in this retroversion? or what half Januses are we, that cannot look forward with the same idolatry with which we for ever revert! The mighty future is as nothing, being everything! the past is everything, being nothing!

Nothing puzzles me more than time and space; and yet nothing troubles me less, as I never think about them.