I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long - such a strange melange of good and evil.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think.

In solitude, when we are least alone.

I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.