Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.

Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want.

I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind.

If you are ever drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations.

The rain came down upon my head - Unshelter'd. And the wind rendered me mad and deaf and blind.

Art is to look at not to criticize.

In the tale proper--where there is no space for development of character or for great profusion and variety of incident--mere construction is, of course, far more imperatively demanded than in the novel.