I consider the success of my day based on the seeds I sow, not the harvest I reap.

Love- what is love? A great and aching heart; Wrung hands; and silence; and a long despair

I had learned to dwell with pleasure, as a beloved daydream, on the thought of the separation of these elements.

It is the history of our kindnesses that alone make this world tolerable. If it were not for that, for the effect of kind words, kind looks, kind letters . . . I should be inclined to think our life a practical jest in the worst possible spirit.

Fiction is to grown men what play is to the child.

I've a grand memory for forgetting.

We fill the slaughterhouses daily with screams of fear and pain.