A profusion of fancies and quotations is out of place in a love-letter. True feeling is always direct, and never deviates into by-ways to cull flowers of rhetoric.

Panic is a sudden desertion of us, and a going over to the enemy of our imagination.

The legitimate aim of criticism is to direct attention to the excellent. The bad will dig its own grave, and the imperfect may safely be left to that final neglect from which no amount of present undeserved popularity can rescue it.

Passion doesn't look beyond the moment of its existence.

Discretion is the salt, and fancy the sugar of life; the one preserves, the other sweetens it.

We make way for the man who boldly pushes past us.

Living with a saint is more grueling than being one.