The whole body of the arts and sciences composes one vast machinery for the irritation and development of the human intellect.

Grief even in a child hates the light and shrinks from human eyes.

Rightly it is said of utter, utter misery, that it 'cannot be remembered'; itself, being a rememberable thing, is swallowed up in its own chaos.

Thou hast the keys of Paradise, oh, just, subtle, and mighty opium!

But my way of writing is rather to think aloud, and follow my own humours, than much to consider who is listening to me; and, if I stop to consider what is proper to be said to this or that person, I shall soon come to doubt whether any part at all is proper.

No man will ever unfold the capacities of his own intellect who does not at least checker his life with solitude.

I stood checked for a moment - awe, not fear, fell upon me - and whist I stood, a solemn wind began to blow, the most mournful that ever ear heard. Mournful! That is saying nothing. It was a wind that had swept the fields of mortality for a hundred centuries.