Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence.

Few things hold the perception more thoroughly captive than anxiety about what we have got to say

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

It is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view.

The sense of an entailed disadvantage - the deformed foot doubtfully hidden by the shoe, makes a restlessly active spiritual yeast, and easily turns a self-centered, unloving nature into an Ishmaelite.

Truth has rough flavours if we bite it through.

... the true seeing is within; and painting stares at you with an insistent imperfection.