Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see is in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in pain.

And when wind and winter harden All the loveless land, It will whisper of the garden, You will understand.

How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being.

The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable.

The final mystery is oneself.

And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite.

The public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything, except what is worth knowing.