The world is a play that would not be worth seeing if we knew the plot.

When temptations march monotonously in regiments, one waits for to pass.

Every man ought to be inquisitive through every hour of his great adventure down to the day when he shall no longer cast a shadow in the sun. For if he dies without a question in his heart, what excuse is there for his continuance?

One learns little more about a man from the feats of his literary memory than from the feats of his alimentary canal.

Literary people are forever judging the quality of the mind by the turn of expression.

Clever people seem not to feel the natural pleasure of bewilderment, and are always answering questions when the chief relish of a life is to go on asking them.

There ought to be some sign in a book about man, that the writer knows thoroughly one man at least.