The sadness of the incomplete, the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art.

Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.

Passion does not blind. No. Passion is sanity, and the woman you love, she is the only person you will ever really understand.

The crime of suicide lies rather in its disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave behind.

Those who prepared for all the emergencies of life beforehand may equip themselves at the expense of joy.

I only wish the poets would say this too: love is of the body; not the body, but of the the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul!

But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like some one in a book.