Everyone lives by selling something.

The body is a house of many windows: there we all sit, showing ourselves and crying on the passers-by to come and love us.

The outer world, from which we cower into our houses, seemed after all a gentle habitable place; and night after night a man's bed, it seemed, was laid and waiting for him in the fields, where God keeps an open house.

Most of our pocket wisdom is conceived for the use of mediocre people, to discourage them from ambitious attempts, and generally console them in their mediocrity.

Some places speak distinctly. Certain dark gardens cry aloud for a murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for shipwreck.

I kept always two books in my pocket, one to read, one to write in.

To cast in it with Hyde was to die a thousand interests and aspirations.