In the death of my son, now more than two years ago, I seem to have lost a beautiful estate,--no more. I cannot get it nearer to me.

Nature arms each man with some faculty which enables him to do easily some feat impossible to any other.

Truth is too simple for us: we do not like those who unmask our illusions.

Beauty is an outward gift, which is seldom despised, except by those to whom it has been refused.

A bullet had found him, his blood ran out as he cried. No money could save him, so he laid down and died. Ooh, what a lucky man he was.

Man was born to be rich, or to inevitably grow rich, by the use of his faculties: by the union of thought with nature.

Every wall is a door.