The evening of life brings with it its lamps.
The soul paints itself in our machines.
The aim of argument, or of discussion, should not be victory, but progress.
Criticism even should not be without its charms. When quite devoid of all amenities, it is no longer literary.
Taste is the literary conscience of the soul.
Genuine witticisms surprise those who say them as much as those who listen to them; they arise in us in spite of us, or, at least, without our participation,--like everything inspired.