Writing can come naturally to some. Still, when it comes to good writing, this is true: Easy reading is damn hard writing.

We sometimes congratulate ourselves at the moment of waking from a troubled dream; it may be so the moment after death.

Is it a fact-or have I dreamt it-that, by means of electricity, the world of matter has become a great nerve, vibrating thousands of miles in a breathless point of time?

There is so much wretchedness in the world, that we may safely take the word of any mortal professing to need our assistance; and, even should we be deceived, still the good to ourselves resulting from a kind act is worth more than the trifle by which we purchase it.

This world owes all its forward impulses to people ill at ease.

We must not think too unkindly even of the east wind. It is not, perhaps, a wind to be loved, even in its benignest moods; but there are seasons when I delight to feel its breath upon my cheek, though it be never advisable to throw open my bosom and take it into my heart, as I would its gentle sisters of the south and west.

Every individual has a place to fill in the world and is important in some respect whether he chooses to be so or not.