There are no words to express the abyss between isolation and having one ally.

if a man would make his world large, he must be always making himself small.

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to severn strode, / The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.

The thing I hate about an argument is that it always interrupts a discussion.

Stated baldly, charity certainly means one of two things–pardoning unpardonable acts, or loving unlovable people.

It is true that there is a thing crudely called charity, which means charity to the deserving poor; but charity to the deserving is not charity at all, but justice. It is the undeserving who require it, and the ideal either does not exist at all, or exists wholly for them.

...I will praise the English climate till I die—even if I die of the English climate. There is no weather so good as English weather. Nay, in a real sense there is no weather at all anywhere but in England. In France you have much sun and some rain; in Italy you have hot winds and cold winds; in Scotland and Ireland you have rain, either thick or thin; in America you have hells of heat and cold, and in the Tropics you have sunstrokes varied by thunderbolts. But all these you have on a broad and brutal scale, and you settle down into contentment or despair.