The perpetual mourner -- the grief that can never be healed -- is innocently enough felt to be wearisome by the rest of the world. And my sense of desolation increases. Each day seems a new beginning -- a new acquaintance with grief.

All our ignorance brings us closer to death.

There is no killing the suspicion that deceit has once begotten.

To an old memory like mine the present days are but as a little water poured on the deep.

No evil dooms us hopelessly except the evil we love, and desire to continue in, and make no effort to escape from.

Better a wrong will than a wavering; better a steadfast enemy than an uncertain friend; better a false belief than no belief at all.

The first sense of mutual love excludes other feelings; it will have the soul all to itself.