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

Love is the crowning grace of humanity.

I had got this far, and was thinking of what to say next, and as my habit is, I was pricking the paper idly with my pen. And I thought how, between one dip of the pen and the next, time goes on, and I hurry, drive myself, and speed toward death. We are always dying. I while I write, you while you read, and others while they listen or stop their ears, they are all dying.

The greater I am, the greater shall be my efforts.

From thought to thought, from mountain peak to mountain. Love leads me on; for I can never still My trouble on the world's well beaten ways.

Reality is always the foe of famous names.

There is no lighter burden, nor more agreeable, than a pen.