. . . long journeys are strange things: if we were always to continue in the same mind we are in at the end of a journey, we should never stir from the place we were then in . . .

Ah, what a grudge I owe physicians! what mummery is their art!

Not to find pleasure in serious reading gives a pastel coloring to the mind.

there are some people who never acknowledge themselves in the wrong; God help them!

We must always live in hope; without that consolation there would be no living.

Death makes us all equal.

It is the fine rain that soaks us through.