Boy, take my advice, and never try to invent any thing but--happiness.

Give me a condor's quill! Give me Vesuvius crater for an inkstand!

The stillness of the calm is awful. His voice begins to grow strange and portentous. He feels it in him like something swallowed too big for the esophagus. It keeps up a sort of involuntary interior humming in him, like a live beetle. His cranium is a dome full of reverberations. The hollows of his very bones are as whispering galleries. He is afraid to speak loud, lest he be stunned; like the man in the bass drum.

As for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.

Do not presume, well-housed, well-warmed, and well-fed, to criticize the poor

Both the ancestry and posterity of Grief go further than the ancestry and posterity of Joy.

Failure is the true test of greatness