Any work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line.

Words, as is well known, are the great foes of reality.

Mathematics commands all my respect, but I have no use for engines.

You can't, in sound morals, condemn a man for taking care of his own integrity. It is his clear duty.

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.

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.

Even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence--but more generally takes the form of apathy