People who live at a distance are naturally less faulty than those immediately under our own eyes.

Perfect love has a breath of poetry which can exalt the relations of the least-instructed human beings.

Men and women make sad mistakes about their own symptoms, taking their vague uneasy longings, sometimes for genius, sometimes for religion, and oftener still for a mighty love.

There is a great deal of unmapped country within us.

There is only one failure in life possible, and that is not to be true to the best one knows.

Our selfishness is so robust and many-clutching that, well encouraged, it easily devours all sustenance away from our poor little scruples.

But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.