Beauty hath no lustre save when it gleameth through the crystal web that purity's fine fingers weave for it.

Nor cell, nor chain, nor dungeon speaks to the murderer like the voice of solitude.

Yes, I laugh at all mankind, and the imposition that they dare to practice when they talk of hearts. I laugh at human passions and human cares, vice and virtue, religion and impiety; they are all the result of petty localities, and artificial situation. One physical want, one severe and abrupt lesson from the colorless and shriveled lip of necessity, is worth all the logic of the empty wretches who have presumed to prate it, from Zeno down to Burgersdicius. It silences in a second all the feeble sophistry of conventional life, and ascetical passion.

The soul shares not the body's test.

Beauty hath no lustre save when it gleameth through the crystal web that purity's fine fingers weave for it.

It is actually possible to become amateurs in suffering.

A time will come, and soon, when, from mere habit, you will echo the scream of every delirious wretch that harbors near you; then you will pause, clasp your hands on your throbbing head, and listen with horrible anxiety whether the scream proceeded from you or them.