Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.

Hell is an idea first born on an undigested apple dumpling.

And tell him to paint me a sign, with-no suicides permitted here, and no smloing in the parlor; might as well kill both birds at once.

All the world over, the picturesque yields to the pocketesque.

Love is both Creator's and Saviour's gospel to mankind; a volume bound in rose-leaves, clasped with violets, and by the beaks of humming-birds printed with peach-juice on the leaves of lilies.

Let us only hate hatred; and once give love a play, we will fall in love with a unicorn.

We die of too much life.