Afraid of decision, I buried my finer feelings in the depths of my heart and they died there.

A strange thing, the human heart in general, and woman's heart in particular.

Passions are merely ideas in their initial stage.

We survive on novelty, so much less demanding than commitment.

Of two friends, one is always the slave of the other, although frequently neither acknowledges the fact to himself.

I am like a mariner born and bred on board a buccaneer brig whose soul has become so inured to storm and strife that if cast ashore he would weary and languish no matter how alluring the shady groves and how bright the gentle sun.

He in his madness prays for storms, and dreams that storms will bring him peace.