Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. Even with no motive to be false, it is very hard to say the exact truth.

The scornful nostril and the high head gather not the odors that lie on the track of truth.

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.

We are rather apt to consider an act wrong because it is unpleasant to us.

Is it not rather what we expect in men, that they should have numerous strands of experience lying side by side and never compare them with each other?

I protest against any absolute conclusion.

Dear Friends all, A thousand Christmas pleasures and blessings to you -- good resolutions and bright hopes for the New Year! Amen. People who can't be witty exert themselves to be pious or affectionate.