Hurt, he'll never be hurt--he's made to hurt other people.

It always seemed to me a sort of clever stupidity only to have one sort of talent - like a carrier pigeon.

What moments of despair that life would ever be made precious to me by the consciousness that I lived to some good purpose! It was that sort of despair that sucked away the sap of half the hours which might have been filled by energetic youthful activity: and the same demon tries to get hold of me again whenever an old work is dismissed and a new one is being meditated.

We judge other according to results; how else?--not knowing the process by which results are arrived at.

Hatred is like fire, it makes even light rubbish deadly.

Do we not all agree to call rapid thought and noble impulse by the name of inspiration? After our subtlest analysis of the mental process, we must still say that our highest thoughts and our best deeds are all given to us.

autobiography at least saves a man or woman that the world is curious about from the publication of a string of mistakes called 'Memoirs.