The troublesome ones in a family are usually either the wits or the idiots.

After all, the true seeing is within.

... the majority of us scarcely see more distinctly the faultiness of our own conduct than the faultiness of our own arguments, orthe dulness [sic] of our own jokes.

Love at its highest flood rushes beyond its object, and loses itself in the sense of divine mystery.

We long for an affection altogether ignorant of our faults. Heaven has accorded this to us in the uncritical canine attachment.

Steady work turns genius to a loom.

History repeats itself.