Intelligence is the wife, imagination is the mistress, memory is the servant.

One sees qualities at a distance and defects at close range.

The tomb is not a blind alley: it is a thoroughfare. It closes on the twilight. It opens on the dawn.

The memory of an absent person shines in the deepest recesses of the heart, shining the more brightly the more wholly its object has vanished: a light on the horizon of the despairing, darkened spirit; a star gleaming in our inward night.

You say, "Where goest Thou?" I cannot tell, And still go on. But if the way be straight I cannot go amiss: before me lies Dawn and the day: the night behind me: that Suffices me: I break the bounds: I see, And nothing more; believe and nothing less. My future is not one of my concerns.

Sorrow is a fruit. God does not make it grow on limbs too weak to bear it.

Table talk and Lovers' talk equally elude the grasp; Lovers' talk is clouds, table talk is smoke.