Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
One of the pleasures of reading old letters is the knowledge that they need no answer.
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.