Perhaps out there, somewhere, someone is sighing for your absence; and with this thought, my soul begins to breathe.

I saw the tracks of angels in the earth: the beauty of heaven walking by itself on the world.

Suspicion is the cancer of friendship.

Books never pall on me. They discourse with us, they take counsel with us, and are united to us by a certain living chatty familiarity. And not only does each book inspire the sense that it belongs to its readers, but it also suggests the name of others, and one begets the desire of the other.

Man has not a greater enemy than himself.

I have taken pride in others, never in myself.

Sameness is the mother of disgust, variety the cure.