Impatient people, according to Bacon, are like the bees, and kill themselves in stinging others.
It is always chilling, in friendly intercourse, to say you have no opinion to give.
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.
No great deed is done by falterers who ask for certainty.
We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it.
It always seemed to me a sort of clever stupidity only to have one sort of talent - like a carrier pigeon.