The beauty of some women has days and seasons, depending upon accidents which diminish or increase it; nay, the very passions of the mind naturally improve or impair it, and very often utterly destroy it.

Reading Don Quixote can be compared to an indefinite visit from your most impossible senior relative, with all his pranks, dirty habits, unstoppable reminiscences, and terrible cronies. When the experience is over, and the old boy checks out at last (on page 846 - the prose wedged tight, with no breaks for dialogue), you will shed tears all right; not tears of relief or regret but tears of pride. You made it, despite all that 'Don Quixote' could do.

But my thoughts ran a wool-gathering; and I did like the countryman, who looked for his ass while he was mounted on his back.

True valor lies in the middle between cowardice and rashness.

That's the nature of women, not to love when we love them, and to love when we love them not.

We ought to love our Maker for His own sake, without either hope of good or fear of pain.

Every man was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth.