The night is a skin pulled over the head of day that the day may be in torment.

We are but skin about a wind, with muscles clenched against mortality.

None of us suffers as much as we should, or loves as much as we say. Love is the first lie; wisdom the last.

The truth is how you say it, and to be 'one's self' is the most shocking custom of all.

Love becomes the deposit of the heart, analogous in all degrees to the 'findings' in a tomb. As in one will be charted the taken place of the body, the raiment, the utensils necessary to its other life, so in the heart of the lover will be traced, as an indelible shadow, that which he loves.

Dreams have only the pigmentation of fact.

The very condition of Woman is so subject to Hazard, so complex, and so grievous, that to place her at one moment is but to displace her at the next.