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

One can't live with one's finger everlastingly on one's pulse.

Every age is fed on illusions, lest men should renounce life early and the human race come to an end.

In the time of Spanish rule, and for many years afterwards, the town of Sulaco--the luxuriant beauty of the orange gardens bears witness to its antiquity--had never been commercially anything more important than a coasting port with a fairly large local trade in ox-hides and indigo.

How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a specter through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat?

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

Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory.