The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.

A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.

Wine is only sweet to happy men.

Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.

My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.

Let us not go hurrying about and collecting honey, bee-like buzzing here and there for a knowledge of what is not to be arrived at, but let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive, budding patiently under the eye of Apollo, and taking hints from every noble insect that favours us with a visit - sap will be given us for meat and dew for drink.