Under the strain of this continually impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, languidly weak both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of my other self.

To be wholly devoted to some intellectual exercise is to have succeeded in life.

But of works of art little can be said.

To the old our mouths are always partly closed; we must swallow our obvious retorts and listen. They sit above our heads, on life's raised dais, and appeal at once to our respect and pity.

You can kill the body, but not the spirit.

Am I no a bonny fighter?

To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.