To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.

There is nothing perfectly secure but poverty.

It is folly to pretend that one ever wholly recovers from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar. There are faces I can never look upon without emotion, there are names I can never hear spoken without almost starting.

He that respects himself is safe from others. He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.

Love gives itself; it is not bought.

I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where.

Evil is only good perverted.