This magnificent butterfly finds a little heap of dirt and sits still on it; but man will never on his heap of mud keep still.

In plucking the fruit of memory one runs the risk of spoiling its bloom, especially if it has got to be carried into the market.

I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine.

Who would care to question the ground of forgiveness or compassion.

The condemned social order has not been built up on paper and ink, and I don't fancy that a combination of paper and ink will ever put an end to it.

A certain simplicity of thought is common to serene souls at both ends of the social scale.

But his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself and, by heavens I tell you, it had gone mad.