Of what use, however, is a general certainty that an insect will not walk with his head hindmost, when what you need to know is the play of inward stimulus that sends him hither and thither in a network of possible paths?

A friend is one to whom one may pour out the contents of one's heart, chaff and grain together, knowing that gentle hands will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.

I think what we call the dullness of things is a disease in ourselves. Else how could anyone find an intense interest in life? And many do.

And certainly, the mistakes that we male and female mortals make when we have our own way might fairly raise some wonder that we are so fond of it.

When death, the great reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.

It is always chilling, in friendly intercourse, to say you have no opinion to give.

It is seldom that the miserable can help regarding their misery as a wrong inflicted by those who are less miserable.