My books don't seem to belong to me after I have once written them; and I find myself delivering opinions about them as if I had nothing to do with them.

Particular lies may speak a general truth.

Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.

We are on a perilous margin when we begin to look passively at our future selves, and see our own figures led with dull consent into insipid misdoing and shabby achievement.

Great feelings will often take the aspect of error, and great faith the aspect of illusion.

...Though there's reasons in things as nobody knows on---- that's pretty much what I've made out; yet some folks are so wise they'll find you fifty reasons straight off, and all the while the real reason's winking at 'em in the corner, and they niver see't.

One must be poor to know the luxury of giving!