Some hard and dry book in a dead language, which you have found it impossible to read at home, but for which you still have a lingering regard, is the best to carry with you on a journey.

How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book.

Love is no individual's experience; and though we are imperfect mediums, it does not partake of our imperfection; though we are finite, it is infinite and eternal.

Being is the great explainer.

There must be some nerve and heroism in our love, as of a winter morning.

To the innocent there are neither cherubim nor angels.

We hear and apprehend only what we already half know.