I love all men who think, even those who think otherwise than myself.

It is nothing to die. It is frightful not to live.

Loving is almost a substitute for thinking. Love is a burning forgetfulness of all other things. How shall we ask passion to be logical?

When I speak to you about myself, I am speaking to you about yourself. How is it you don't see that?

The sunshine was delightful, the foliage gently astir, more from the activity of birds than from the breeze. One gallant little bird, doubtless lovelorn, was singing his heart out at the top of a tall tree.

A day will come when markets, open to trade, and minds, open to ideas, will become the sole battlefield.

It is the peculiarity of grief to bring out the childish side of man.