it is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom.

In all her intercourse with society, however, there was nothing that made her feel as if she belonged to it... She stood apart from mortal interests, yet close beside them, like a ghost that revisits the familiar fireside, and can no longer make itself seen or felt.

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

Romance and poetry, ivy, lichens and wallflowers need ruin to make them grow.

There is great incongruity in this idea of monuments, since those to whom they are usually dedicated need no such recognition to embalm their memory; and any man who does, is not worthy of one.

Dream strange things and make them look like truth.

Do anything, save to lie down and die!