In reading some books we occupy ourselves chiefly with the thoughts of the author; in perusing others, exclusively with our own.

...for her whom in life thou dids't abhor, in death thou shalt adore

And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave.

The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God.

We now demand the light artillery of the intellect; we need the curt, the condensed, the pointed, the readily diffused - in place of the verbose, the detailed, the voluminous, the inaccessible. On the other hand, the lightness of the artillery should not degenerate into pop-gunnery - by which term we may designate the character of the greater portion of the newspaper press - their sole legitimate object being the discussion of ephemeral matters in an ephemeral manner.

And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy.

We now demand the light artillery of the intellect; we need the curt, the condensed, the pointed, the readily diffused -- in place of the verbose, the detailed, the voluminous, the inaccessible.