The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret.

As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.

Romantic literature is in effect imaginative lying.

Self-denial is simply a method by which arrests his progress, and self-sacrifice a survival of the mutilation of the savage.

Before Turner there was no fog in London.

One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing.

Then there was a man who said, 'I never knew what real happiness was until I got married; by then it was too late'