No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence--that which makes its truth, its meaning--its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream--alone.

A writing may be lost; a lie may be written; but what the eye has seen is truth and remains in the mind!

She feared the unknown as we all do, and her ignorance made the unknown infinitely vast.

The Westerly Wind asserting his sway from the south-west quarter is often like a monarch gone mad, driving forth with wild imprecations the most faithful of his courtiers to shipwreck, disaster, and death.

Beyond the fence the forest stood up spectrally in the moonlight, and through the dim stir, through the faint sounds of that lamentable courtyard, the silence of the land went home to one's very heart - its mystery, its greatness, the amazing reality of its concealed life.

The artist in his calling of interpreter creates because he must. He is so much of a voice that, for him, silence is like death

Woe to the man whose heart has not learned while young to hope, to love - and to put its trust in life.