This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit seemed to utter cries and voices; that the amorphous dust gesticulated and sinned; that what was dead, and had no shape, should usurp the offices of life. And this again, that that insurgent horror was knit to him closer than a wife, closer than an eye; lay caged in his flesh, where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born; and at every hour of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber, prevailed against him, and deposed him out of life.

Give us courage and gaiety and the quient mind . . .

It takes hard writing to make easy reading.

For the forest takes away from you all excuse to die. There is nothing here to cabin or thwart your free desires. Here all impudences of the brawling world reach you no more.

We should strive to go on in fortune and misfortune like a clock during a thunderstorm.

O my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I read Satan's signature upon a face, it is on that of your new friend.

If you keep on drinking rum, the world will soon be quit of a very dirty scoundrel!