The recent extraordinary discovery in Photography, as applied in the operations of the mind, has reduced the art of novel-writing to the merest mechanical labour.

If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense.

Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love that makes the world go round.

Sentence first, verdict afterwards.

I cannot even pretend to feel as much interest in boys as in girls.

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

First, I hate all theological controversy: it is wearing to the temper, and is I believe (at all events when viva voce) worse than useless.