Friendship is the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words.

No compliment can be eloquent, except as an expression of indifference.

Melodies die out, like the pipe of Pan, with the ears that love them and listen for them.

The tale of the Divine Pity was never yet believed from lips that were not felt to be moved by human pity.

The rich ate and drank freely, accepting gout and apoplexy as things that ran mysteriously in respectable families.

The memory has as many moods as the temper, and shifts its scenery like a diorama.

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.