We surround ourselves with the true image of ourselves.

Logic is the procession or proportionate unfolding of the intuition; but its virtue is as silent method; the moment it would appear as propositions, and have a separate value, it is worthless.

Where do we find ourselves? In a series of which we do not know the extremes, and believe that it has none. We wake and find ourselves on a stair; there are stairs below us, which we seem to have ascended; there are stairs above us, many a one, which go upward and out of sight.

People do not deserve to have good writing, they are so pleased with bad.

No one has a prosperity so high and firm that two or three words can't dishearten it.

Women, as most susceptible, are the best index of the coming hour.

The age of a woman doesn't mean a thing. The best tunes are played on the oldest fiddles.