Our true history is scarcely ever deciphered by others. The chief part of the drama is a monologue, or rather an intimate debate between God, our conscience, and ourselves. Tears, grieves, depressions, disappointments, irritations, good and evil thoughts, decisions, uncertainties, deliberations --all these belong to our secret, and are almost all incommunicable and intransmissible, even when we try to speak of them, and even when we write them down.

Man never knows what he wants; he aspires to penetrate mysteries and as soon as he has, wants to re-establish them. Ignorance irritates him and knowledge cloys.

The ideal, after all, is true than the real: for the ideal is the eternal element in perishable things.

Time is but the space between our memories; as soon as we cease to perceive this space, time has disappeared.

We are never more discontented with others than when we are discontented with ourselves.

Man is a passion which brings a will into play, which works an intelligence.

The best path through life is the highway.