History repeats itself, but the special call of an art which has passed away is never reproduced. It is as utterly gone out of the world as the song of a destroyed wild bird.

There is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea.

Kisses are the remnants of paradise.

Everything belonged to him--but that was a trifle. The thing to know was what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own.

It is respectable to have no illusions, and safe, and profitable and dull.

A writer without interest or sympathy for the foibles of his fellow man is not conceivable as a writer.

It's only those who do nothing that make no mistakes, I suppose.