sorrow...is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love touches it

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.

You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him.

I like talking to a brick wall- it's the only thing in the world that never contradicts me!

One has a right to judge a man by the effect he has over his friends.

Any place that we love becomes our world.

Pleasure is Nature's test, her sign of approval.