The mother's love is at first an absorbing delight, blunting all other sensibilities; it is an expansion of the animal existence.

Life seems to go on without effort when I am filled with music.

You should read history and look at ostracism, persecution, martyrdom, and that kind of thing. They always happen to the best men, you know.

What furniture can give such finish to a room as a tender woman's face? And is there any harmony of tints that has such stirring of delight as the sweet modulation of her voice?

even those who call themselves 'intimate' know very little about each other - hardly ever know just how a sorrow is felt, and hurt each other by their very attempts at sympathy or consolation. We can bear no hand on our bruises.

Every limit is a beginning as well as an ending.

What a different result one gets by changing the metaphor!