The hardest thing for me is the sense of impermanence. All passes; nothing returns.
Women like to sit down with trouble - as if it were knitting.
Preserve, within a wild sanctuary, an inaccessible valley of reverie.
... the life of the mind is reality, and love without romantic illumination is a spiritless matter.
women love with their imagination and men with their senses.
I've liked life well enough, but I reckon I'll like death even better as soon as I've gotten used to the feel of it. ... I shouldn't be amazed to find it less lonely than life after I'm once safely settled.