To the untrue man, the whole universe is false- it is impalpable- it shrinks to nothing within his grasp. And he himself is in so far as he shows himself in a false light, becomes a shadow, or, indeed, ceases to exist.

Wherever there is a heart and an intellect, the diseases of the physical frame are tinged with the peculiarities of these.

Mountains are earth's undecaying monuments.

Death should take me while I am in the mood.

The only sensible ends of literature are, first, the pleasurable toil of writing; second, the gratification of one's family and friends; and lastly, the solid cash.

She could no longer borrow from the future to ease her present grief.

She wanted—what some people want throughout life—a grief that should deeply touch her, and thus humanize and make her capable of sympathy.